“Can you build me a treehouse, Pa? Charlotte wants one, too, only she doesn’t know how to ask yet. I want it to have a front porch, windows, and a ladder with a pulley just like Mommy had when she was a little girl.”
I could hear the conversation going and the soft answer from my father. “Of course, I can. Anything you girls want. Let me talk with your mother about it and see what we can do.”
Months passed, and Dad and I were talking on the phone early one morning. Out of the blue, he said, “Sis, now I want to be clear. I don’t want to come to build a treehouse, and ya’ll will move away from there, and all that time and effort has been lost.”
As he talked, my eyes looked out over the creek running through the front yard and the cattle grazing across the road. I took in the swing and seesaw, sitting motionless under the big oak tree. My thoughts drifted down our path through the woods and to my back porch swing, where I love to sit and enjoy the rain. I thought of our friends, and church family. Then I pondered the friendly honks we receive as acquaintances drive down our country road; they know “the Howard’s” live here.
When he finished, I said without hesitation, “This is where we will raise our kids. Lord willing, we will never move from this place. Build the treehouse.”
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Before the building commenced, Chuck asked, “Why do the girls need a treehouse?” I stopped in my tracks and spun around; I was about an inch from his face. Perhaps I came on too forceful, but nonetheless, I carried on, “Because every kid should know what it is like to climb the ladder to a treehouse built just for them. Whether it’s a fort or a castle, a kid should know what it’s like to look back as an adult and remember the make-believe that happened in their special hideaway.” He looked back at me; questioning quietly, but responded, “OK.”
It took about a year to get the date on the calendar and the savings ready, but as fall approached, Pa and Grammy backed in a 38-foot horse trailer and unloaded. Chuck took the necessary time off of work so that he could be my dad’s right hand during the building process.
Listen, Jim Stockdale, you’re going to work today!
standing joke delivered by my mother
Pa and Chuck cut cedars for posts and used a 100+ year-old cedar tree for the main structure. Watching Chuck hold the beams seven feet in the air while my father screwed them to the tree was a sight to behold. Later, my father said, “He’s like a boulder.”
Everyone else was feet on the ground. We carried, hauled, loaded, and watched – Eva and Charlotte notwithstanding; everyone participated. With my prominent belly in the way, I was restricted to only the “go for” jobs and meal prep; homemade soups, cornbread, grilled steaks, and peach cobbler proudly graced the table through the process.
When the treehouse was finished, curtains were hung, and furniture was added. Eva looked up at me and said, “We need a sign- NO BOYS ALLOWED!” I grinned, knowing it was official; the girls had a treehouse just like their mommy- actually better.
Sitting up in the trees with my girls, memories flooded back of another treehouse built high in a cottonwood tree. Charlotte, opening and closing the windows, interrupted my daydreaming as she said, “Where Pa and Gammy go?” I smiled at her vocabulary and her understanding.
I’m sure my father, like Chuck, had better things to do than build a treehouse all those years ago, yet, my father stopped long enough to invest in his kids. I love that my girls have a daddy that added value to their childhood.
All was quiet the following Monday when my folks left. Chuck went back to work, Eva returned to school, and Charlotte enjoyed her afternoon nap. I sat down to write a thank you card and saw the treehouse out the dining room window as I wrote. I noticed the path leading up to the treehouse still needs to be well-worn, but given time, I know it will become trodden from all the adventures that await.
Take good care of it, girls. Make a lot of memories and have many slumber parties. Tyson, enjoy making it your fortress one day and a place where you and Daddy camp out for the next nice-sized buck to creep through the woods.
When you’re all grown up, may the woods rustle with remembrance, and the treehouse retell stories of days gone by. Let the old tin roof play a childlike melody as the rain falls over the edges. May your make-believe haunt these woods forever.
There were just a few places left to screw when I stood on the porch looking down with the girls. Pa and Chuck were below, making the final cuts. Pa looked up at me and said, “Looks like the price just went up for this place.” I firmly stated, “Not for sale.” Then, from the miter saw below, I heard Chuck say, “Value has been added.” I knew without saying it he understood why the girls needed a treehouse; a man of few words, but I knew. And that’s all that mattered.
That this may be a sign among you when your children ask in time to come, saying, what do these stones mean to you? Joshua 4:6
(Be ready. Because they are going to ask – better leave some markers.)
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