My husband loves to tell stories and I love to hear them. I’ve asked him repeatedly to write a few of them so others may enjoy them too, but he’s reluctant. He’s agreed to share this one with I-Hub.
I was chatting with my wife about the freedoms we enjoyed as children. Very few, if any, activities involved adults, and none were organised by adults for us. For the most part, we were on our own. Sure, we made some incredibly stupid moves, and if we’re honest with ourselves, we can wonder how we ever survived. We learned from our mistakes. It was said that to tell me something I’ll remember it for a minute; show me and I’ll remember an hour; involve me and I’ll remember a lifetime. One of the fondest memories I have from my childhood was building a tree house.
About a dozen boys participated in erecting our tree house. Our total knowledge of construction, among everyone involved, still amounted to zero. We learned from our mistakes. We must have learned quite a bit, because our mistakes were plentiful. In fact, our first two tree houses fell to the ground while we were inside. It was a miracle there were no serious injuries, although one kid suffered a cracked rib. If I suffered a similar ten foot drop today, I’d be looking forward to a long hospital visit.
We had an ideal tree for our plans. A stout trunk reached about ten feet before spreading into branches. The limbs radiated outward before curving upward. The shape was similar to an arm and hand reaching to pick an apple. Our tree house would be built on the ‘palm’ part. Another advantage this tree had was it was adjacent to a garage. This meant we had a platform to stand on while we worked. It also meant that if we fell, the garage would break our fall. We didn’t fall often, but when we did, the garage helped.
One obstacle we needed to overcome was a shortage of nails. ‘Shortage’ can take on two meanings: nails were few, and those nails we manage to scrounge were much too short. Nailing a 2x4 to a tree with a 3” nail won’t hold. The nail barely penetrates the bark. The major source of construction material was discarded industrial palettes. We’d salvage both wood and nails. Fortunately, a neighbour decided to upgrade his eaves trough. The scrap eaves toughing was a gold mine of spikes so long that they’d easily reach through a 2x4, the tree bark, and into the solid wood beneath. Once we incorporated these spikes into our construction, our troubles with our houses falling out of the tree ended. With the building phase completed, we looked forward to enjoying part.
As boys sometimes do, we would collect cigarettes. In those days, it wasn’t difficult because most adults smoked. There were always cigarettes lying somewhere out of sight and out of mind. When they disappeared, nobody noticed. One kid’s poor harvest would always be offset by another’s bounty. When we had enough for everyone, we’d have a smoke party. In school, we learned about the North American native practice of gathering together to smoke, and we decided to give it a try.
About a dozen of us were crammed into our tree house. One kid brought a real treasure. He found a pile of magazines hidden under his older brother’s bed. Normally, because we didn’t enjoy reading, these magazines would not have interested us much, but they had some very interesting pictures. We divided the magazines and the cigarettes and settled in for a great time. We lit up. Every few seconds, one would hold up his magazine to share with the others what he found. A competition began: who would find a picture of the biggest boobs? If heaven’s gates had opened for us, we’d have refused to enter. Nothing could be better than this time in our tree house.
The tree began to shake. We could hear footsteps. An adult was climbing toward us. What should we do?
The door opened and the opening was filled by a giant fireman’s hat. Under the hat was a fireman. He was wearing a black rubber raincoat. He didn’t look very happy. One of the kids jumped out the window, landed on the garage, and kept running. The rest of us were trapped. We were told to come down. The tone of the fireman’s voice communicated that his request wasn’t negotiable.
Once we were on the ground, things became clear. With a dozen kids enjoying cigarettes, someone saw the clouds of smoke and called the fire department. The fire truck’s arrival alerted parents. We were surrounded and awaiting a pending doom. The kid who jumped escaped successfully. We blamed everything on the kid who got away, explaining that he wasn’t from our school and that we didn’t know his last name. The fireman checked our tree house, satisfied himself that there was no fire, and left.
We weren’t safe yet. We still had to face our parents. What would we tell them? Our usual tactic in these matters was that everyone begins at once to give a different account of what happened. We’d observe who’s story seemed most favourably received and we’d each realign our own explanations. What we didn’t want was parents inspecting our tree house, because in our haste to leave, we didn’t have a chance to hide the magazines.
In those days, (1955-1960) our parents knew one another, talked, and compared stories. A few days later, we were informed that the tree house had to go. The decision was final. There would be no appeal.
We began demolition, but the longer eaves trough spikes made this tough work. A fresh approach was needed. After some brainstorming, we settled on an idea that could save us quite a bit of effort. We attached a chain to the base of our tree house and the other end to the rear bumper of Henry’s father’s car. Our plan was that when Henry’s father left for work the next morning, his car would dislodge the tree house. Once it was on the driveway, our work would be easier.
Our plan almost worked. The next morning, a good chunk of our tree house was missing. Unfortunately, a good chunk was still in the tree. Henry walked to school with an unusual gait. He seemed to have a tender rear end, red eyes, and an unwillingness to talk. Once at school, Henry was reluctant to take his seat, but did eventually, slowly lowering himself in. Henry’s recess activity was similarly curtailed.
Our plan did work. It just took more time than we anticipated. When we arrived home from school, Henry’s father was on a ladder dismantling the tree house on our behalf. We offered to help. Our offer was refused. Henry avoided the scene and entered his house through the front door. In an hour or so, our tree house was just a memory. It’s a memory that has remained with me for four decades, with no sign of fading.
The Commander.
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