Tree Fort of Doors

20 tree fort first edit 3/15 5:30 AM

The sun was shining brightly and a gentle breeze stirred the leaves on the trees just a little. With my window open, I could hear the leaves rustle. It was a glorious day. A good day to be alive. Live for the moment.

I decided to go for a walk. I changed my slippers for walking shoes and grabbed my camera and cane. I walked out of my apartment, locking the door as I checked to make sure that I had my keys. I headed to the door, I looked to my left. There she was.

“Good morning, Mr. Gibson.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Sciocetti,” I replied.

“Out for your daily walk?”

“Yes I am. It's too beautiful to remain indoors,” I answered.

“Bring your umbrella.”

“Umbrella? Why? It's a picture perfect day.”

“I feel it is going to rain,” said Mrs. Sciocetti.

“I don't think it will,” I answered with a smile. “Enjoy the day, Mrs. Sciocetti.

Just as I stepped out the door of the apartment building, it started to rain. What? The sun is out. I looked to the west and I saw the dark gray clouds approaching. Well, at least go for a short walk. You have time. No umbrella, but you have time. You won't melt.

I walk as much as I can. Unlike when I was a kid, I don't like to walk in the rain. Sure, I have an umbrella and all that. But my feet get wet. I don't wear galoshes anymore. I don't even know if galoshes are sold anymore. That brought back an old memory. A very old memory.

I vividly remember back when I was small and my folks lived at Steinmetz Homes in Schenectady. Steinmetz was low income housing, and as a lowly GE apprentice, our family was definitely low income. Like most moms, my mom didn't work anymore, so we lived on my dad's meager salary.

It was raining out pretty good. I don't remember where I got it, but I had a small umbrella. I asked my mom if I could go outside and go for a walk. She said yes. She got me in my raincoat and galoshes and out I went, umbrella in hand.

One thing that I remember clearly was that I couldn't see clearly. I was about four years old, maybe even three. I didn't get glasses until I went to kindergarten. I was as blind as a bat. But somehow I knew enough to follow the sidewalk and eventually I would go around the block and wind up home again. I can't even say how I found my home. All of the buildings at Steinmetz were identical. But I suppose I did find home somehow.

Looking back, letting a four year old outside to go for a walk alone wouldn't be done today. Especially in a low income development. Too many weirdos and drug addicts.

I was passed by a tractor-trailer with a big WHOOSH, which snapped me out of my pleasant daydream. I crossed the bridge over the railroad tracks on Sixth Street. I wonder at what point Sixth Street turns into Middletown Road? Not that it's important, I guess. I just always wonder about things. I study things that no one really cares about or even thinks of. That must be why I'm a writer and author. I get hung up on minutiae. Is tractor-trailer one word or two? Why is the truck that pulls the trailer called a tractor? I need to google that.

And then it started to rain. Hard. Shit. I heard a car pull up behind me. Please please please...

“He Mr. Gibson! Hop in, get out of the rain!”

“Thanks Richie!” I yelled.

I got to his car door as fast as my shuffle would take me. I hopped into his '60 Olds. Fairly spry for a gimpy old man, I thought.

“Where to?” asked Richie.

“Might as well take me home,” I answered. “It's raining pretty good.”

“Well, I just came down Middletown Road and it isn't raining up on the hill,” said Richie.

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Yep. It must be one of those really small, compact showers,” he answered.

“Do you think it's raining in Swayze Acres?” I asked.

“Only one way to find out for sure,” he said. “Let's go look.”

Richie drove down by the convent, turned, and went around the block. This old Olds rides pretty good, I thought. As Richie drove up the Middletown Road hill, the rain seemed to let up. By the time we got to Prospect Hill, it had not only stopped completely, but the sun was shining brightly once again and the gentle breeze was blowing.

“See? No rain,” said Richie.

“Great! I need to walk,” I said. “Would you drop me off at the corner?”

“Why don't I pull in and turn around by Jim McFarlande's house,” said Richie.

“OK, sounds good to me. You know Jim?”

“Yes. He's one of my customers,” said Richie.

“You have customers? I thought you worked at Behr-Manning?” I asked.

“I do,” he answered. “I have two jobs. One for work, one for God.”

Richie took a right down Lea Avenue and came to a stop at the intersection with Barratt Drive. I opened the big, heavy Oldsmobile door with some effort. I turned in my seat, got my feet on the asphalt, and stood while holding onto the car. I felt a little dizzy but it quickly passed.

“Thanks Richie!” I said as I got out of his car. “I really do appreciate the rides. Really.”

“Any time, man,” said Richie. “Enjoy your walk.”

Richie was able to wheel the Oldsmobile around without difficulty and drove back to Middletown Road, where he took a right.

A right? When Richie picked me up, he was headed down Middletown Road toward the village. Now he's going in the opposite direction. Whatever. None of my business.

I looked up Barratt Drive. It was quiet. No one. I looked down Lea Avenue. Same thing. Oh well, just go for a walk, Gibson. That's what you always say you're going to do. Don't nag. Don't procrastinate. Be quiet. Fine, don't walk. See if I care. Fine. Fine.

As I walked down Lea Avenue, I could make out the sounds of hammering. The closer I got, the louder it got. It sounds like Chumley's house. I walked across Yaeger's abandoned driveway next to their abandoned house, or at least what was left of it as a driveway. There was grass growing up through the gravel everywhere. I don't know who mows the grass once a year, but they should mow the driveway too.

I got to the back of Yaeger's house and the hammering got louder. I looked and didn't see anyone. I walked across Teatrault's back property to Chumley's. I saw no one.

“Hi Mr. Gibson!”

I looked around and saw no one.

“Up here!”

I looked up and saw... something. It was doors. Nailed up in the tree. The doors from the convent. Russ and Bob Van looked back at me.

“C'mon up Mr. Gibson!” yelled Bob.

“Uh, no. No thanks kids. How did you get those big heavy doors up there?” I asked.

“It wasn't easy,” said Russ. “It took awhile, and we kept on dropping the doors halfway up the tree. I pulled from the top and Bob pushed from the bottom.”

“What happened when you dropped a door?” I asked.

“Well, I could feel the door slipping out of my hands, so I'd yell 'LOOK OUT BELOW!' and Bob had to move real fast.”

“Geez kids. That could be dangerous!” I said. “Someone could get hurt!”

“Yeah, but we got them up here,” said Russ. “What's hard is getting a nail through the wooden door into the tree!”

“Those are oak doors, Russ!” I said. “Oak is very hard.”

“Yeah, tell me,” said Russ. “I'd think the nail was going in, and I'd hit it and PING off the nail would fly. Bob is good at finding them and straightening them out.”

“Well, I guess,” I said, remembering how scarce nails were once the houses in Swayze Acres were all built. While they were under construction, we'd walk around outside of the framed houses and pick up nails discarded by the carpenters. We'd also find small scraps of wood that we were sure we'd be able to use somewhere. Kids were scavengers.

I stepped back from the tree. I looked up at the... well... I guess it's a tree fort. There were doors for the floor, roof, and sides. I couldn't figure out what was holding it up there. Just nails into trees? What would happen to it in a breeze? That whole thing could come down and be pretty bad if you were in it or under it. I glanced to my right and I saw a man coming towards us.

“Russell! You get that crap out of my tree!”

I looked over to him. He was mad, and scowling. He was a big man, with tattoos on his arm. Don't mess with this guy.

“Why dad?” whined Russell.

“Because I said so. You do it right now,” said Russell's dad.

“But da-ad,” whined Russell again.

“But nuthin'.”

Russell's dad looked at me.

“Do I know you?” asked Russell's big dad.

“No. My name is... Harrison. Harrison Ford,” I replied sticking my hand out.

Russell's dad looked me up and down. He shook my hand. He almost crushed it.

“My name is Clancy,” he said. “Do you live around here? Why are you here?”

“I, uh, live close. I like to walk around and this is a safe place to do it,” I said. “I met Russell and his friends. They seem like good kids.”

“Russy you be careful! Don't drop a door on anyone!” yelled Clancy. “They can be good kids, but I gotta watch 'em. They do some crazy stuff sometimes. Like this. The damn kids are going to kill themselves.”

“I came by to see what the hammering was all about,” I said. “It doesn't look to safe to me.”

“Well, OK. Good to meet you. I need to get in and get some dinner. Been working hard all day and I come home to this. Russell! Dinner!” said Clancy as he turned and walked back to his house.”

“Boy, your dad was mad!” said Bob Van to Russell.

“Yeah, but I guess we need to knock down our tree house,” said Russell solemnly.

“And then what?” asked Bob.

“Then nothing, I guess,” said Russell. “No more tree houses. And if we build a fort on the ground, other kids will find it and knock it down.”

That was what we did as kids. Build forts. The other thing we did was to look for the forts that other kids built and knock them down. It was kid warfare. I suppose that's why we called them forts.

“Why don't we just build it up off the ground?” asked Bob.

“What do you mean? I'm pretty sure my dad doesn't want to see a tree house,” said Russ.

“Let's build it up on stilts!” said Bob excitedly, as if he just found a loophole.

“On stilts?” asked Russ.

“Yeah! It would be hard to knock down, being up off the ground. And we'd be safe from dirt bomb attacks.”

“RUSSY! TIME FOR DINNER!” yelled Mrs. Chumley out the back door.

“Coming!” yelled Russ.

“RIGHT NOW RUSSELL!”

“I have to go,” said Russell. “Let's talk about it tomorrow.”

Russell ran off to his house for dinner. Bob was smiling. He was in a pretty good mood for a kid who was just told to knock down his tree house.

“I have to go too, Mr. Gibson,” said Bob as he ran off to his house across the street.

I was left alone. I looked up at the tree house made of doors. It's a good thing Clancy came out and saw that monstrosity. Somebody could have been killed in that thing. Either someone would fall out of it, or get hit with a door, or it would just fall out of the tree or something. For the life of me, I don't know why kids don't think. It's a wonder we all survived to adulthood.

I looked around while I was there behind the Lea Avenue houses. I hadn't actually been there for awhile. The sleigh-riding hill was there up towards the Crazy Kid's house. The hill didn't look quite as big as I remember it.

On the edge of the property, Clancy's burn barrel was smoldering. Even though we had garbage pick-up in Waterford, Clancy still liked to burn all of his papers. I wonder if some of the papers were mail that had personal information? Today we use shredders. Back then we used burn barrels. Russ and I used to sometimes wrap potatoes in tin foil and drop them in the barrel. At some point, after the fire burned out, we'd fish the potatoes out and try to eat them. They were always burned beyond recognition, like charcoal, but we'd try to eat them anyway.

There was my folk's garage, and next to it where I liked to play in the dirt with my men. Men. Huh. Little plastic soldiers and cowboys and Indians. I called them men. I liked to set the men up like they were fighting each other and then pelt them all with dirt bombs. Nope, I don't know why. Not anymore. It made sense as a kid, but not to an old man. I can't explain some of the odd things I did back then. But I had one heck of an imagination. That must be why I became a writer. Imagination. Writing puts my imagination on display for all to see. Scary thought.

Speaking of writing, I better get on home and work on my book some more. My eighth book. Imagine that? You say imagine too much. What else would you have me say? You got a thesaurus in your pocket? No, but you need a different word than imagination. Why don't you just shut up?

Fine.

Fine.