“No ma’am,” I replied, “we don’t live at Elm Lake; that’s where they have the golf course and cement swimming ponds. We live in ‘the’ Prairie.”
Over here, we try to out-do our neighbors with tree houses, hunting or observation. I think it started with Charles Swoope. A mastermind in construction, Charles built a tree house to accommodate grandfather and grandson. This would be a place where memories would be made, picnics had, and a youngster would learn to drink coffee by the time he was 5 years old.
I was privileged to view the huntin’ house while under construction. Charles had a system of ropes and pulleys and large PVC pipes to roll his house, like a Trojan horse, to its eventual location and then pull it to the upright position. Ropes and pulleys hoisted the roof on the tree house, like capping a bottle.
Not to be outdone, neighbor Willis Pope built a tree house with a trap door. Some days I would see Willis transporting tree house parts in the back of his old pickup. I think Willis had more than enough neighborly input on how to build a tree house. The Pope’s Christmas card showed 11 kids and grandkids happily hanging from and peeping out of the tree house.
In our usual fashion the Bardwells scoured outbuildings for recycling materials. Ah ha — the old fort that had been attached to the girls’ swing set. Sam dragged the fort sideways with the tractor to the edge of the woods and pulled it upright. A few well-placed boards and nails secured the structure. He built a ladder since, unlike the girls, we could not manage the tiny swinging rope ladder.
“Sam, this last rung is a bit high for me.”
“That’s all the lumber I had.”
It will do, I said. After all, I had been doing those yoga stretches.
As any good Prairie woman would have it, I decorated: The old rug with the fish and bait print, a small comforter that may have been a dog bed, those two beach chairs … you know, the ones that look like lawn chairs for midgets; those would do nicely. One chair had a busted web, so I took that one. Next I added some camouflage netting and swagged it across the top so we wouldn’t look like two pumpkin heads sitting on a fence.
The next evening we packed a thermos of coffee and headed to the tree house. At first it was strange to sit still, motionless, and stare silently at the landscape. Birds flew over, ducks, the dreaded cormorants, and a great blue landed. Sage blew and leaves rustled.
We sipped hot coffee slowly and quietly, and as the sun slipped behind the tree line … there he was.
An eight-point buck stepped cautiously into the clearing. Sam reached for the camera. “Click.” He got him.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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