Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.
When I was ten, we moved to a little suburb of Portland, Oregon, called Milwaukee. I loved it. There were fun kids in the neighborhood, and it wasn’t city. There was plenty of wooded area, and there were bushes growing along the side of the road that fairly burst with blackberries for our pleasure.
It was a growing area, with several building sites nestled among the wonderful, tall pine trees. Those areas were a treasure trove for a bunch of kids itching to build a treehouse, and in my memory, the guys on the work crews got a kick out of supplying us with lots of bent nails, scraps of tarpaper, and odds and ends of lumber.
(ours wasn’t this fancy–we didn’t have any adult help!)
We found a tree that was a fairly easy climb, and that had perfect branches for our project. We labored all day every day for what seems like maybe two weeks or more, putting down a floor, building up walls, creating windows, and it seems like we used something for a ceiling. Maybe some of the bushy boughs from the trees.
Every day we went home with pine pitch on our clothes, in our hair, and our shoes. We were allowed to use only our oldest, raggedy jeans and shirts because the pitch just didn’t come out very well.
We were finally finished, and I remember spending the better part of the next week tucked away in our hideout. We played games, read, loafed around, chatted with the builders who were pretty complimentary about our efforts.
Then, one morning, the reality of the existence of rotten people hit us right between the eyes. Someone had trashed our hideout. Completely destroyed, it lay in pieces on the ground all around the tree.
We asked the work crews, and they were sympathetic, but hadn’t been there when the damage was done.
Well. We went on to other projects, and we got over it. But the memory of the fun of building, and the sick feeling of helplessness when someone wrecked our fun, stays in the crevices of my memory.