I always thought that a tree house would be a very functional piece of real estate. I never actually had one but I did imagine what it would look like. It took various forms; from a white colonial with green shutters and brass accents to a tattered Greek revival like the one we passed on the way to Grandma Lillian’s. Sometimes I would drag home pieces of wood that I found in the alley thinking that I might build one some day; but dad was very anti-clutter so it always ended up by the curb on trash day.

In a small house with four kids, quiet moments were difficult to come by. A tree house, I believed, would solve all of my problems. It would allow me a place all my own where I could drink a Pepsi, read Nancy Drew and have a penthouse view of the city… just like the one on Green Acres. Granted, we lived in Toledo, not New York, and I had no idea what a penthouse was; but, Eva Gabor seemed pretty happy with it and that was good enough for me. Strangely enough, my desire for a tree house had less to do with alone time than it did with satisfying my love affair for small, cozy spaces. My real dream (and this is somewhat embarrassing) was to be like Thumbelina and sleep in a walnut shell… but we will save that story for another day.

Today’s tale is about the tree house I never had. Maybe some day I will build one but for today it will be constructed purely within the boundaries of my imagination.

The sign over the door of my tree house reads:
ILLEGITIMI NON CARBORUNDUM. Generally translated as: Don’t let the bastards grind you down. This sentiment is self-explanatory and while I would not have thought of it when I was twelve and cannot take credit for it now... it is definitely something that I would say. Life is grueling enough. When you have taken the time to climb up a line of poorly nailed wooden boards you should be able to be left alone.

Visitors would be few; my girls, my guy, select family members, people who are bringing me a latte, and my friend Ashley who shares my love of English literature, says the most shocking things, and loves a good martini now and then.

For the most part, my treehouse would be for hiding away.  I would lie on the hard wooden floor and close my eyes. Like a symphony, the sounds of life going on in the world below would gently float through the window and make their way into my consciousness. My face would automatically turn toward the rays of sunlight streaming through cracks in the wood and my stomach would growl as the scent of grilled hamburgers drifted upward and overwhelmed every other sense.

The world is magnified as I listen to the sounds below me. Bicycle tires pushing aside stones in the alley. A basketball hitting the cement in perfect rhythm and then bouncing off of the backboard with a dull thud. Somewhere a dog is barking, probably mine, it’s always mine. Like a music box gone mad, strains of three blind mice blare from the speaker of an ice cream truck and a little sister is screaming for her brothers to wait up as they rush to be the first in line. She is ultimately left alone and without any money for a strawberry shortcake bar.

The muffled cries of the little sister can still be heard as stars begin to replace the sunlight and the tree house is cloaked in darkness. Lights begin to fill the windows below and the last bike lands roughly in a garage that is much too crowded for a car to fit.

Maybe I will lie here a little longer. Perhaps someone will come looking for me. It’s a nice thing to be missed, especially when it has nothing to do with someone needing to find a shoe, your checking account number, or a clean pair of underwear. It makes no sense to hide if no one ever comes looking for you anyway.

Everyone needs a place to hide now and then. A tree house, a penthouse, or a walnut shell; it doesn’t really matter. Just a place to go where no one grinds you down. A place to sit back quietly and watch the world spin a while without you.