My daughter, and a carpenter bee the size of a VW Beetle, were not happy with me. This was detailed in a letter I received from my child that read: “Dad, I am not only mad, upset, and disappointed in you because you took down a piece of my childhood, but also because somebody was living in there.”
The somebody was the gigantic bee. He, or she — I didn’t stop to ask — was hovering above the pile of cut and rotting wood I had stacked up. I heard little buzzing curses directed my way. Whether they were coming from the insect or my daughter, I wasn’t quite sure.
Clearly, I had not made friends.
The pile was what remained of my daughter’s fort — an elevated playset with a green plastic slide, a steering wheel and telescope, and enough memories to fill a book.
I had built it years ago. The ladder. The sturdy railings. It tied into an A-frame swing set, wide enough for two swings and a trapeze. In its glory, it was a marvel. Kids swarmed it like wild monkeys, swinging from this, dangling from that, occasionally rocketing off like launched from a cannon. There were enough close calls that we kept the emergency room on stand-by at all times.
But that was when my daughter was younger and played on it more. And when she was smaller, and kids climbing it didn’t make it sway like it was being ravished by a hurricane. Some days it seemed to be leaning, as if tired and wanting to lie down. There was some rotting wood. For a lot of reasons, it was time to come down.
It had been my design — similar to the fort by dad had built when I was a kid. My creation — built with my own bare hands. All those memories. Yet, it was time to go.
My daughter served me with the letter as I stacked up the cut wood. Ouch!
Taking down a fort like that is a sad affair. The backyard feels empty and naked, even while full of new opportunity and promise. It will get a facelift. We’re busy concocting plans for a more grown up backyard — a fountain, some landscaping, a family swing, room to kick a soccer ball or do your taxes. I don’t know. Options are wide open. The backyard is growing up, just like the kid.
But there’s pressure. That letter made it clear. I have to make it up to the kid. I have to do something cool back there for her. And then there’s the angry, homeless bee. Clearly, I have my work cut out for me.