FORTS
On the swale that separates my neighbor’s farm and mine, a tattered old snow fence is wrapped in a wavy circle around an ancient Buckeye tree. Within its perimeter are a collection of old bottles, a few wooden chairs placed casually about, and a five-gallon pail tied to a rope. The rope extends up into and over the branch of that old Buckeye tree. On the West face of the tree trunk, the kids have mounted a set of wooden stairs to ease their ascent to a comfortable looking little nook in its branches. The girls call their little piece of earth their clubhouse. Boys who come to visit call it a fort. In their fort, the girls are free to do as they please. Housekeeping as example is not an issue. Noise levels either. And judging by the fossilized remains of several gray mud pies and the collection of old woodchuck skulls at the base of the tree, their schedule of events is also strictly of their own choosing. Kids need a fort I think. A spot where they can be themselves for better or for worse. A place of their own where ingenuity can blossom, responsibility can be learned and where, far from the attentive ears of their parents, they can fight out their little kid problems all by themselves. When I was a kid, we lived on a heavily wooded piece of land in North Granger. I suppose that Kurt and I were about twelve when we started construction in its woodiest depths on Fort Out-Of-Doors. We named our secret spot as such because the entire fort was built out of doors, literally. Old doors from barns and fall-down homes made up its floor, sides, and roof. Alone in those woods, Kurt and I never spent a dull moment. We enjoyed our days together building damns on a nearby creek, creating what we were sure would be hydroelectric generating wheels. We laid traps on the forest floor and set bait inviting any stray bobcat or little brother to take a whack from a bent sapling, or tumble down into a leaf covered hole. Our fort was our kingdom, a castle with Beech tree watchtowers and granite thrones. We opened every session at the fort with a business meeting. He would steal some nails off his dad’s workbench for next time, and I would make the sandwiches. Balogna alright? Then we would get to work, planning, building, raking leaves, and shoring up our defenses. Though our stronghold was never infiltrated in those years, we were always ready. Looking back over the thirty years since our little fort began its inevitable descent back into the surrounding landscape, I can see that a good bit of who I am was being formed while I was its engineer, its protector, and its commanding officer. I can’t see my kids’ fort from the house, but I know when they’ve been out there. The farm falls strangely quiet, and then, after a time, their muddy feet leave a weary trail to their bedrooms, where they sleep long and hard.... A day older, but much more grown.