WHAM! The back door slammed against the green frame of our 1950s Florida home. My fathers’ footsteps fell heavily against the hardwood floor as he traced his way across the kitchen. “Drew! Where is Drew!?” I looked up briefly, but quickly hung my head, understanding by the tone of Dad’s voice that I was in trouble. “You left my hammer in the yard and now it’s rusty! Do you realize what this would do to my lawn mower!?” I stood there, staring at the grass stains on my father’s old white tennis shoes. “Don’t touch my tools Drew, I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t touch my tools!” The disciplinary actions that followed will remain without explanation, but I got the message. Dad didn’t like me borrowing his tools, especially without asking, and especially when I didn’t put them back when I was finished.
Through the 90s my family lived in Florida. Our 500 square foot home was built in 1951 in the middle of an old citrus grove. It was a wood framed home, uncommon for Florida due to its vulnerability to termites. Our yard boasted a few remnants of overgrown grapefruit trees neatly nestled on less than two tenths of an acre, surrounded by a chain-link fence. Fences feel like cages to little boys, and I spent most of my free time outside of it. Thankfully we lived on a lazy dead-end street on which I could ride my bicycle up and down, frequently visiting my neighborhood friends. When it rained, I would ride through the gutters, splashing muddy street water up my back, ruining most of my tee-shirts.
With three siblings at the time, I wanted my own space. The neighbor boy T.J. had a treehouse, and I was determined to have my own. In the back corner of our yard, just outside the fence, was an overgrown Ligustrum tree, about 30 feet tall. One by one I hauled scrap pieces of wood up into the tree. Now deprived of my father’s hammer and nails I decided to lash the wood in place with rope and string. Soon I had a platform large enough to stand on, from this perch I could view the world. To keep my brother at bay I stockpiled rotten grapefruit in my tree fort. This was our ammunition of choice. Hanging above the fort on a broken branch was my slingshot, my bow and arrows, and a jar full of lizards. “Supper is ready!” my mother yelled. Using a rope slung over a branch I lowered myself to the ground.
In 1997 we moved to Virginia. One acre of land provided much to explore for this 9-year-old city boy. We had moved next door to my mom’s childhood friend and they had 4 children our age. Many hours were spent playing cowboys and Indians, fishing in the creek, sledding down our hill, and building large Indian forts in the neighbor’s woods.
In the back of our new property was a large cottonwood tree next to an old red sided chicken house. Using my slingshot, I sent a spool of fishing line high up into the tree over a prominent branch. Then, using the line, I pulled up a stout rope and tied it off for a rope swing. Leaning an old aluminum ladder against the chicken house my brothers and I quickly figured out that we could swing off of the roof! We spent many hours with the neighbors swinging high above the ground. WHOOSH! The wind rushed through my hair as I swung, higher and higher, sometimes grabbing leaves off the tree branches to prove how high I’d been.
Fighting was an important part of growing up with brothers. On one particular day Shea and I were fighting over the rope swing. For some reason, no I didn’t use reason, I thought it would be a good idea to take the ladder down from the chicken house and lean it up against the tree right in my brother’s path. He decided to swing anyway, and on his return swing, cracked his head hard against the aluminum ladder. There was a lot of blood! I stumbled over my excuses as I explained to my mother what had happened, trying not to get in trouble but knowing that I would. He had to get his head stapled shut. All the excitement of the swing faded as I realized that I’d seriously injured my brother, and that hurt me.
2001 was a big year for our family, not only was my younger brother Josiah born, but we moved to New Market along the river. Summer time meant swimming in the river, fishing, and crawling through the local caves. Yes, there were caves near our house. In short order we picked out a spot along the river for a rope swing. Having been to amusement parks, and ridden on roller coasters, I can say from experience that nothing quite compares to the pure joy of a rope swing over the river. We were fortunate to find a spot over a very deep swimming hole. The water was so deep that we could drop in from precarious heights into the water.
Many years have passed since these formative memories of rope swings and tree forts, and now I have four children of my own. ZZZZZIPPP! I can hear the zipline out the window from my office as I write this. A gift to my children two Christmas’s ago. I’m reminded of the long days and big imagination I had as a child every time I find one of my hammers and cans of nails left out in the yard to rust. I’m reminded to be patient with them when my boards or sheets of roofing tin are found leaning against the tree in the back yard, or when they “dig a hole to China.” As much as I long for it, I can’t return to my childhood, but I can help my kids live theirs.
