Tree-House Gothic

The very term, ‘tree-house’, in this case could only be termed ambitious. The stark enclosure, constructed of the most rudimentary materials--particleboard, previously used two-by-fours, nails picked up off the ground at construction sites, and a few sheets of tin serving double duty as roof and siding—looked much as it did the last time I saw it, fifty years ago. Oh, it’s true that the tin gave testimony of the abuse heaped on by Colorado weather, choosing to give up several electrons of galvanizing and revert to its elemental oxide color. That’s the thing about tin, I think; much like its human counterpart, it can’t be trusted to resist the cold without help.

Sitting tucked between three foundation-limbs nearly twelve feet off the ground (or so I assessed it without actual measurement or knowledge of trigonometric calculation—I tended to daydream a good bit in math class), it persevered the last half century with grace uncommon to most of us. I found a long, straight stick and prodded inside the opening (I’d call it a doorway except for the fact that it had never contained an actual door), and hooked onto the two ropes with intertwined knots that dropped down and formed the basis of a ladder.

How many kids had crawled inside it? How many teenagers seeking refuge from their parents’ judgmental eyes had rolled fat joints between these walls? How many teen-aged boys saw their first real, live bare titties up here? How much semen produced by Hustler photos or Mary Elizabeth Bradley’s hand-jobs stained the floor? Would the lantern Uncle Willie gave me still be there? Hell, would the rope even hold me as I tried to climb it?

One look at the aged hemp left no doubt that the rotting process sufficiently altered the rope’s integrity so as to render it ineffectual as conveyance to the Kingdom, so I returned to my truck and produced the aluminum ladder and extended it skyward. Once in place against the threshold, a quick tap insured its viability and I began to scale the rungs, my senses preparing for my entrance and my mind savoring the anticipation. I couldn’t help but compare my steps to those of Egyptologist Howard Carter as he first entered the tomb of Tutankhamen at Luxor. Are the treasures unsullied by human hands? Will the curse I set into motion fifty years ago still strike dead anyone attempting to enter? Will the floor collapse and deposit my ample ass back onto the forest floor?

I ambled onto the tin floor on hands and knees, carefully testing each movement and noting how much the enclosure had shrunk since my boyhood. Other than some debris deposited by the wind along the back wall, there was only one artifact still present—a torn poster now faded by weather and age, but still hung in precisely the spot I had nailed it so long ago. A smiling cartoon clown, wearing a pointy fez and oversized shoes, posed in a fashion no doubt designed to pique our interest and beg our parents to take us. Underneath, in letters too large to ignore, came the proclamation:

Ringling Brothers-Barnum and Bailey Circus
Denver Coliseum, July 16-20, 1960

A few minutes wasn’t too much to ask of myself as I luxuriated in the rich memories of Dale Irthum, Cheri Duval, Dick-licker Ambrose and the night I convinced Laurel McFadden that she couldn’t get pregnant the first time. Suddenly, I felt the enclosure shake and creak. Perhaps the wind gusted a little harder than I’d anticipated or possibly the ghosts felt threatened by my presence, I couldn’t be sure. Either way, I filled my lungs with the same slightly lean Rocky Mountain air of my youth and backed down the rungs of my ladder.

1960… in a tree-house…