July 10, 2024–This week I was amazed to learn not everyone grew up with a treehouse in their back yard.
A cartoonist online recently wondered why, when every cartoon has pictures of elaborate backyard treehouses, he knew no one in real life who had one.
I replied, not only did we have one growing up, I have never lived in a house that didn’t feature at least one treehouse. It was often the first improvement we made to the property, even before adding a bath or functioning AC.
My first and favorite childhood treehouse was a Yamaha piano crate. Our dad was working at a music store at the time, and he had access to those sturdy constructions, built of pine and designed to ferry grand pianos across the sea from Japan. The day he trailered it to the farm drew a fair crowd. He had rigged up ropes and pulleys to hoist it into a low horizontal branch of the giant maple tree by our driveway. Once set in place and anchored, it became my refuge. I spent many happy hours up there, dreaming, writing, reading, and dropping things on ground-scrabbling peasants.
When we bought our starter home as a young family, I built a modest platform in the backyard pear tree. It was only a few feet above the ground, but it became a portal to the future the first time our son managed to scale it at the age of 3.
When we moved to our current home in the country, the previous owner left three deer blinds that our kids quickly claimed as treehouses. One was dangerously high, at least 25 feet above the ground in a giant oak. It scared me crawling up the boards nailed to the trunk as a ladder.
So I built a smaller version that included a platform over a swing, rings, and bar. It was rigged with a rope and pulley for the kids to pull up buckets of supplies. Best of all, it was under a berry tree, so snacks were at arm’s reach.
When our youngest was homeschooling, she spent entire days doing her homework in another treehouse in our front yard that is now serving our grands.
Treehouses had such allure for our four kids, I was unaware of one they built for themselves at the back corner of our property. It was a Christo-worthy construction, made of discarded boards, repurposed cookware, and swaths of canvas. This was 20 years ago, and remnants still wave in the breeze.
As adults, those of us fortunate enough to have grown up with treehouses, never outgrow them. I suggest every deck is simply a treehouse, built low to the ground and accessible via sliding doors.
What is the appeal of treehouses? Is it the safety or the danger? Does it hark back to a history of living in trees, where lofty perches ensured distance from hungry predators and a vantage point for spotting prey?
Or does the appeal derive from the inherent danger of dangling in space? I vividly remember slipping and hanging 10 feet above the gravel. Thanks to adrenaline and teenage agility I pulled myself back up on the branch and crawled like a Florida iguana back to the treehouse.
Or is it simply a change of perspective? A way to feel cooling breezes and gentle rocking, to satisfy our perennial yearning to touch the sky?
Probably.