Grandpa built the treehouse.
The treehouse was sturdy. Even if the wind was strong, it never moved.
The different levels were firmly settled between the big, strong branches and there was always enough space for many excited children to dream and imagine.
The ladder that touched from grass to first floor was well worn.
The swing that hung from the highest branches always had a different use - a rocketship to outer space...a rescue winch for those swimming on the grass below...a race car that nearly wins...a secret entrance to a different land.
The leaves that covered the treehouse floor were big and green.
The treehouse was always a safe place.
Grandpa built the treehouse.
In the treehouse, the mind was free to run wild! You could be a spy, documenting each car that passed by on the road. You could be a fireman, having to shimmy down the outside of the tree to resuce the leaves that had fallen. You could be a gourmet chef, serving up the best branches and twigs in town. You could even be an alien coming down from your spaceship that crashed in the tree.
Grandpa built the treehouse.
He got the planks, he cut the wire, he nailed in the ladder, he strung up the rope and he found the cushions. Grandpa even had a small case of toys set aside that were essential for any treehouse storyline. Grandpa would be your partner in crime, Grandpa would be your fellow spy, Grandpa would be the fire truck driver and the spaceship navigator. Grandpa would be the police, the villain and the victim. Grandpa was always part of the story.
Grandpa built the treehouse.
Grandpa and the treehouse are now gone, but the imagination is not.....thank you Grandpa.
