My neighbors have a fallapart out-building in their vast backyard. It’s a hodgepodge of garage, garden shed, patio, and used-to-be sleep quarters (as far as I can tell). Until last summer it was the color of wilted celery; they’ve considerately painted it white, but we liked the celery structure better. The doors are off hinges, the windows are holes and the floor has 2-foot tall wild flowers growing up through dirt. It’s actually quite lovely and is one of my favorite views from every room in the back of my house. As I was watching it through yesterday’s early Spring heat, it reminded me that my brother and I covertly aspired to be the boxcar kids.
I recollected the random playhouses Kevin and I created throughout our childhood. Depending on our level of adventure at any given moment, we built Clubhouses (with a capital C), or found hideaways, hobo houses, and hidden brush huts. Once we created a mole hole of a fort just off a not-so-busy road in Draper that no adult could spot because they were too busy overlooking or disregarding a potential citadel. We cooked vienna sausages on a tuna-can stove and nearly caught the dried up ditchbank on fire before we were given up by the men in overalls at IFA.
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