I was mowing the backyard today, listening to the local Sunday broadcast when several songs came on that reminded me of middle school, specifically jumping off a diving board and wishing I had a girlfriend. The song in particular was by The Thompson Twins. I didn’t know the name of the tune or even what the lyric was about. It was simply an auditory memory that reached out and slapped me in the face, taking me back to my buddy’s backyard and his basement pinball machine. After the memory came crashing down, I noticed my fence in the backyard was busted and, in one place, was leaning hard. The reason was simple – one of the corner anchoring posts had been built into the treehouse, and the treehouse had been constructed around two massive oak trees. After 10 years of growth and expanding bark, the trunks have pushed themselves outward, bending the structure and warping the floor. I stopped the mower and took a closer look. The whole thing seemed to be getting stretched. Boards were popping up, and screws were slipping out. Even the handrails were wobbly.
Of course, it wasn’t always like this. When I had our carpenter buddy Cliff put it up, he constructed the whole thing in two afternoons. I doodled up some drawings, and he worked quickly, measuring precise cuts, making the boys’ fort look tidy and sharp. When he went out for more wood, I came behind him, adding additional screws, hoping to make it even stronger and safer. Because the 12-foot ladder went straight from the ground up, Cliff added an additional platform, just in case one of boys lost their grip. When it was finished, we added a pirate flag and a telescope made from corrugated drainage pipe. Even with the solid footings and banisters, the boys tumbled off and hardly used the ladder. After a few years, we added a trap door and a pulley system with a carabiner and a bucket. For years, there was talk of building a roof, but that never happened – the best we did was fabricate a tarp into an A-frame.
I know the treehouse was never built to last. When it first went up, there was probably a three-inch gap between the trunks and the nearest plank. It seemed like it would take a lifetime for the boards to touch. It didn’t. Now, the trees have grown into the structure, becoming more a part of the thing than the initial beams ever were, but it served its purpose. And like boyhood, the dimmer switch has been turned, ever so slightly –a little here, a touch there – until you’re mowing the yard, and there’s moss and mildew covering the pressure-treated timber, and the dial won’t twist anymore.
Boyhood is over. I don’t see it as a sad event. My young men’s shoulders are broader now. Their voices have changed. Braces just about gone. Atticus beats me in height, and Levon in shoe size. And though the backyard fort was temporary, the memories and bonds last. The Nerf warfare. The storming the castle. The battleship that landed on the moon. That’s the good stuff – the important stuff – the makings of a childhood. Things fade. Toys once wrapped under the tree with bows and ribbon end up busted or in the back of the car on their way to Goodwill. That treehouse was just a moment in time, and now, that moment is gone. The treehouse lifted them into the branches, but its roots are what they’ll carry with them as they continue to grow and look back. Cut timber turned into something that held our summers, our secrets, our daring climbs – a treehouse that felt bigger than the world, even as we grew out of it.
After the yard was done, I put the mower away and summited the treehouse, holding on to the shaky lumber. It struck me that I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had climbed on board, but it didn’t matter. The treehouse had held my boys’ laughter, their scraped knees, and countless secrets. Old wood, chipped paint – it had done its job, and that was enough.
