brothers, the creek, the mansion high fortress

life worthy of remembrance

brothers, the creek, the mansion high fortress

My brothers and i grew up on the family farm. It was where our father spent his life, it was the land our grandparents had worked long, hard hours since the depression years. 

Our grandfather had bought the 140 acres. It was raw land, natural as it comes, primal. A year-round free flowing creek ran the entire length of its northern boundary. Along the western edge hidden from all, was a sizeable natural wetland of abundant cat tails and shallow waters that offered sanctuary from hunters to the abundant duck population that found their way from northern breeding grounds each year during the winter months. 

The remaining acreage gave way to seasonal farming and pasture that allowed a semi-sustainable life that was more than comfortable. There were more than enough chickens, a few pigs and enough cattle raised to keep the freezers well supplied. 

Each spring, we all worked together to plant the large garden that grandmother oversaw. It was her domain; all did as she bid. She knew how it should be, an intermingling of vegetable and flowers. An abundance of color and more than enough food source for the beehives grandfather kept. It was and still is something that would grace the cover of the saturday evening post. 

It is there my weakness for fresh tomatoes began. 

Many a time did we dine on fresh, just plucked from the garden tomato sandwiches. 

A small tool shed stood adjacent to the garden gate, where assorted shovels, hoes, an ancient single row planter and an assortment of things all necessary to maintain it's productive manner, found berthing. On a shelf off to the side of the door was a salt shaker that gave opportunity to make a freshly picked red orbit of goodness even tastier. 

Damn if life wasn't good. 

We spent many a day after mandatory daily chores, in the cool of the creek searching out minnows, frogs and crawdads. We would put the 'bugs' in a bucket and should we have enough, off to the house we went knowing that one day soon we would have a 'boil' and dine on the little lobster. 

We were as kings. 

Steep banked and tree lined, it afforded one solace and sanctuary from the summer heat. 

The ever present cool flowing waters offered wading and towards the eventual property line on the eastern side, gave way to a deep and sizable obligatory swimming hole. 

It was a local calling card that was open to all. Our grandparents were the models for more than just us, the grandkids. Their generosity to the small town community was well known and respected. Many a day found more than a dozen or so kids of all ages enjoying the pleasure of relief from the summer time heat only a short bike ride from town. 

We had no problem walking in grandfather's shadow. He made it so easy. One time he told us to "never trust a fart!". We laughed and laughed and laughed. It remains a running joke, one being easily passed to the next generation. 

We were always building something or the other being the boys we were, Our main focus was treehouses and treehouses we had. Next to the barn in the giant live oak and down by the creek in the abundant growth that gave protection hidden from unsuspecting eyes . There was a single oak in the pasture that begged us to give honor to it's majestic spread. We had climbed and climbed to most of it's expanse and one day made decision to add another fortress to our already fortified kingdom. 

Collecting scraps here and there, Hauling our booty on our trio of red wagons. We scrounged nails from previously used lumber spending hours straightening the bent and misshapen rusty evidence of prior service. 

We were the unheralded kings of recycling. 

After many days of intermittent attention, we were rewarded for our efforts. It stood largely proud amongst the regal expanse of that one solitaire centurion of pasture land! More than enough space for the four of us as well a few friends. Covered in used rusty tin roofing panels that had previously been part of the original hen house complete with all the nail holes too numerous to count. Challenged sunlight found way through branches large and small, sending  unworldly concentrated beams onto the wooden floor of our 'mansion high'. 

We spent many an hour watching dust that drifted about swirling in a dance never ceasing. Many times did i take a short afternoon nap in the security it afforded. 

Being young adventure minded boys destined for all things greater, we made plans to spend a night in our grand tree fort. It didn't take much to persuade our parents. Our mother joked "finally a night alone!", and grandmother chimed in with "ya got that right! scoot, be off with yaself.". 

And so we were. 

Didn't need much, pillows, sheets, portable radio, remnants of a bag of ginger snaps, a flashlight and desire. Off we went happy as could be exercising our early independence. 

During the night we were rudely awoken by the constant drip, drip, drip of rain finding way through the too many holes the roof offered. We scrambled about and made our hurried exit back to the house as the rain turned into an angry display of fierce lightening and strong winds that partnered the late summer storm. Arriving on the back porch like drowned rats and into the welcoming arms of both our mother, grandmother and the cloaking of fresh off the line towels that had been brought in but hours before. 

I remember the smell offered. As if the sun had graced the cloth with gift of an ever present calm. 

Next morn we rose as normal, had breakfast then off to assigned chores, ending with shared drinks from the garden hose hung off the side of the barn. The water was cool and refreshing having been drawn from the aquifer below. Being boys, someone always turned the hose on the rest and a friendly game of push and shove commenced. 

We were boys, connected by blood and the guidance of nurturing parents, grandparents and the quality of life afforded to us by hard work and good fortune. We learned from early age to appreciate even the simplest of that offered. 

Off we were to retrieve the sheets and pillows we had so easily abandoned in our escape from what was more than just another passing thunder boomer. 

Stopped as one midway to the tree we stood in disbelief.

The right half of our centurion guardian was in more than disarray, having been separated from the tree itself and hung in dangerous way. The tree house or what remained was but twisted and scarred, literally blown apart with pieces lying here and there about the base of our once treasured tribute.

Sometime during the storm, lightening had taken aim at the metal clad target well up off the ground. the energized bolt had found it's target and held back not it's power or destructive way. 

Our mother and father had followed to help in returning the heavy rain soaked bedding.

They joined us in astonished disbelief. 

It was mother that broke the silence, "dang, i couda been set free from you rascals!"