The kid down the block had one, and I always wanted one.
His family had more money than we had, but just about every other family in
town did. More important, his dad was not a Baptist preacher, which contributed
to him having more money and living in one house, his family’s house, his entire
six years.
The kid down the block had one, and I always wanted one.
His family had more money than we had, but just about every other family in
town did. More important, his dad was not a Baptist preacher, which contributed
to him having more money and living in one house, his family’s house, his entire
six years.
We had just moved into the “parsonage” of my dad’s new church. A
dandy tree stood in the backyard, a perfect one for building a “boyz only”
tree house. But, Dad did not feel we had the freedom to build things in the
parsonage’s trees. The deacons seemed to believe the parsonage trees should
not have the kinds of things hanging from them that boys want to put there.
So, for a couple of days, my older brother and I stood at the edge of our
backyard and watched the blessed kid go up and down his knotted rope into his
tree house. He ignored us with a great flair.
Finally, he asked us in a condescending manner, “You wanna climb up into
my tree house?”
We could not hide our elation.
The tree house was not much, but the rope access was wonderful. It was as
big around as my six-year-old wrist. Every foot of rope or so was a big knot.
We would grasp the rope just above the knots and shinny the rope just like pirates
in the Saturday movie matinee.
We moved in a few years, but the new parsonage had nothing high enough to
be a challenge to climb. The west Texas ranch land grew little over a few feet
tall, and none of what did grow could support a kid on a rope.
Well, I grew physically beyond, but not beyond the desire, of having a tree
house and a neat rope. The memory of the fun that rope provided remained.
We never had the physical apparatuses to have a tree house and rope for my
kids, so, that chance was lost. Then, into my life came a grandson, that perfect
excuse for having things you could not have when you were a kid.
Someone had given us a dandy porch swing, but we have no porch, so, a frame
to hold the porch less swing was in order.
The idea came. I could put a neat, big rope attached to an extension of the
swing’s frame and the grandson would be thrilled to have what I never could
have.
Having absolutely no trouble remembering exactly the size and knots of the
rope of my childhood, one was fixed that way, only better. And it all happened
as I remembered. Now, I could watch the grandson have that missed joy of my
childhood.
Finally he came for a brief stay. My wife walked the six-year-old to the rope
she had seen me become so excited about and told him, “Look what Lynn fixed
for you.”
He looked at it like, “What is it, and what do I do with it?”
“You can climb it,” she said with grandmotherly kindness and urging.
Having explored every McDonald’s playground in a five-state area, he accepted
the challenge, climbed to the top, hung there for a few seconds, looked around,
climbed down and walked back into the house to play with his Gameboy. He never
touched the rope again.
How much of our church life is trying to get others to enjoy the things of
our past, which we enjoyed tremendously but are archaic to most folks today?
We just cannot let go of them because they were important to us. And we cannot
understand why folks today may not find the meaning in them today that we found
in them yesterday?
What did my six-year-old have in common with this old man when I was six?
Play. We both liked to play. He just found his own way to do it. I had my day,
and he is having his.