Ugh
This is a kinda silly thing, and a relatively short story, but it’s one of those things that meant a lot to me - and still does. When my brother and I were kids, my ‘imaginary uncle’ (mom’s brother who doesn’t have a lot of contact with us) sent us a little playhouse - a log cabin style thing with four windows, a door, and just the perfect size for kids to play in. And around and on and over and … you get the idea.
I have a lot of memories of playing in that little house. Playing school with my younger neighbor kids, playing imaginary things with myself and my brother and the neighbor kids, and sleeping outside in the log cabin until imaginary coyotes scared us inside.
When we moved, Dad loaded up the house and brought it along, even though I was too old for such things, being in 8th grade at this point. My brother still played in it, but not nearly as much as when it was a playhouse for both of us. Mom and Dad slowly turned it into a gardening shed, putting supplies in it for the outside.
And then the roof collapsed.
I expected that my childhood playhouse was going to become firewood - that we were going to take it apart and throw all the pieces down into the wood chute, where they would turn into a brief moment of light and heat. And I was sad, but I kinda accepted it.
Guess what? The playhouse sits outside my house right now - Dad put it up on a new floor, one designed so you can lift it with the forklift and move it to where you would like it to be. He gave it a little wrap-around-porch and, even more amazing, a new roof. A rather pretty and very secure one that still looks perfect.
So there you have it - my father, preserving my childhood memories even longer. Or at least the solid material part of my memories.
I have a lot of memories of playing in that little house. Playing school with my younger neighbor kids, playing imaginary things with myself and my brother and the neighbor kids, and sleeping outside in the log cabin until imaginary coyotes scared us inside.
When we moved, Dad loaded up the house and brought it along, even though I was too old for such things, being in 8th grade at this point. My brother still played in it, but not nearly as much as when it was a playhouse for both of us. Mom and Dad slowly turned it into a gardening shed, putting supplies in it for the outside.
And then the roof collapsed.
I expected that my childhood playhouse was going to become firewood - that we were going to take it apart and throw all the pieces down into the wood chute, where they would turn into a brief moment of light and heat. And I was sad, but I kinda accepted it.
Guess what? The playhouse sits outside my house right now - Dad put it up on a new floor, one designed so you can lift it with the forklift and move it to where you would like it to be. He gave it a little wrap-around-porch and, even more amazing, a new roof. A rather pretty and very secure one that still looks perfect.
So there you have it - my father, preserving my childhood memories even longer. Or at least the solid material part of my memories.