mainsqueeze's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- in my arms When I was a little girl, my Mother built me a beautiful treehouse, better than anyone else's. We lived on the lake, then, and from the deck of my fort, I could see all the way across to the other side. Mom was single, free and happy and young and pretty. Our house had two fireplaces, and stone sculptures in the yard. The front had a tiered fountain (it was too expensive to run, Mom said) and in the back, there was a giant planter shaped like a basket. The treehouse, though- It wasn't actually IN a tree. It was on stilts, next to a thick patch of oak and elm trees on the front lawn. Mom painted it blue, and gave it french shutters and a swinging door. I used to bring jars and jars full of tadpoles up there, and frogs and toads and turtles, and once, a wounded baby bat that I found lying on our doorstep. The lake was mere yards from our house. We had a dock right on our yard, but we never used that one. The reeds grew right up over it, and the ducks and swans made their nests beneath it. The dock we used was across the street. When I was very small, I used to sit at the edge of that dock and throw pieces of bread into the water for the fish. Occasionally, I'd bring my net and catch a few, but I'd always throw them back immediately. One of my best memories of my Grandmother is of the two of us fishing from that dock. Grandma insisted on using worms rather than bread, so the task of putting them on hooks was hers. She was never squeamish about it, either, and never squeamish about unhooking the fish. She'd sit, in her pastel pantsuits, hair pincurled and perfect, and show me exactly how to remove the hook from the fish's mouth. Gently, she said, so I didn't hurt the fish. No, I could not just cut the line and throw the fish back, lure and all. No, I could not hold it down with my foot and yank on the twine. I never really got it, but I never fish anymore, anyway. A few years ago, I went back to the lake, to the house I'd grown up in. The red brick had been painted white. The east chimney was gone, demolished, but the boxy shape of the base remained untouched. The lawn was perfectly green and clipped and plush- No longer a safe place for the small animals to hide from prowling neighborhood cats. And, of course, my treehouse was nowhere in sight. The dock was still there, though, rotted and cracked and sagging. I walked across the rickety planks, mindful of my step, until I reached the end. I pulled off my shoes and socks and put my feet in the cold water and I closed my eyes and tried to remember everything I could. Just as I was getting up to leave, a little boy made the trip across the trecherous old dock. Just as I had, he pulled off his socks and shoes and stuck his feet into the lake. Once I was on dry land, I glanced back at the boy. He was throwing a handful of bread crumbs into the water. 3:38 a.m. - 2002-10-26 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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