7 minute read
MY O.C
Sunset Views and Souvenirs
A dreamer imagined his treehouse would stay forever young. by Allene Symons
If I say treehouse, it’s not hard to picture a hideaway for a latter-day Peter Pan like my husband. Alan grew up in a Chicago apartment and had no branches to scramble up and down. He had no notion then of the joys—and the unexpected woes—such a whimsical structure might bestow should he someday become a suburban homeowner.
Then, lo and behold, in 1990 and shortly before we met, he bought a home in Santa Ana’s Floral Park district. It came with a huge ash tree in the front yard, one so towering that in 1994 when O.J. Simpson went on his infamous Ford Bronco chase through the interchange of the 5 and 22 freeways, this tree was visible in the TV footage. My husband would dine out on that story for years to come.
When the grandkids were born— first a girl, then 18 months later a boy, and never mind that they lived in Illinois—he decided the half dozen stout branches begged for a treehouse. Now he had his excuse.
Hearing of her dad’s plan, his daughter said she would try to ensure that the kids visited us every summer. I knew his heart was set on this project, so I pushed back gently. “You know ... the kids will outgrow it.”
“Not until they go to college,” he replied.
I negotiated. “Then why don’t you build it without a roof? That way it can be used by adults, maybe for sunset cocktails.” That’s how it became a multipurpose plan.
HE FOUND A CARPENTER willing to take on the job, and together they worked up the design. Alan did his research and set about clearing hurdles: Front yard means no problem with neighbors’ privacy, so check that one o . Height level? Lower than the threshold for a permit. Check. Liability? Lock on the hatch. Check. At least, those were the rules in our city at the time, and ours would hardly be the only
Tune in or Stream
April 28
treehouse in a county of homes and trees and children. Almost every day lately, I drive by one in a Tustin front yard. Our treehouse turned out like a beautiful piece of furniture. It seemed to hover, almost floating in the air. From spring through fall, the slim wooden columns of its graceful railing sat nestled among a green bower of boughs. When the tree shed its leaves around the winter solstice, and the solitary structure stood out in bold relief, it provided an excellent display platform for lighted holiday decorations. After that, the annual cycle would begin again.
For a decade, our grandkids squealed and read and snoozed in a hammock we kept up there, even if they didn’t spend a lot of time being arboreal during summer vacations. We had wine-and-sunset-viewing parties, for six people max. Usually the guests were close neighbors, including members of our coed book club.
And sometimes on a beautiful day, FOR A DECADE, OUR GRANDKIDS SQUEALED AND READ AND SNOOZED IN A HAMMOCK WE KEPT UP THERE, EVEN IF THEY DIDN’T SPEND A LOT OF TIME BEING ARBOREAL DURING SUMMER VACATIONS.
especially in those early years, Alan and I would scramble up the ladder and hoist up a picnic, sit back in a pair of folding chairs we also stored up there, and enjoy the sight from above. On those occasions, we’d see firsthand how it lured other Peter Pans, when a car pulled over to the curb and its driver looked up. If he didn’t see us I’d call down, “Hello, we’re up here,” and I’d hear a response such as, “Great treehouse!” I figured he’d always wanted one of his own.
Or sometimes the curious took it further: The doorbell rang and there stood a dad seeking the inside scoop on how to build one. On a rare occasion, if a kid begged his parents and the dad rang our bell, my husband would agree to take a child up the ladder and through the hatch. They’d climb up and look down, a guarantee of grins, waves, and laughter as if they were boys who happened to come in two sizes.
By now, the treehouse has presided over our front lawn for more than two decades. Like us, you could say it has seen better days. The wooden railing has termites, poor thing, and creaking joints, too, as I noticed when I was up there recently. Unlike the tree, or us for that matter, the structure does not grow new surface layers. Fresh concentric rings are not added to its life span.
43
YEARS
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The grandkids are now in college in the Midwest, their childhood summers behind us. Somehow we’ll need to take action this year, either by replacing a large percentage of the timbers or tearing the whole thing down.
NEITHER OF US ANTICIPATED
facing this decision when it was built, but I think that is largely true of how we all plan our lives. We don’t want to live in a constant end-game state of mind. We go forth, try something, take a chance, and hope for the best. We intend to fare well and prosper.
After all considerations, it looks like the treehouse will be demolished, and this makes me sad. It’s like an unfair payment on optimism has come due. A kind of pre-nostalgia sets in, though it is still there commanding its airy space. Or is this guilt I feel? If the treehouse could talk it might say, “Hey, I gave my all for your family’s best years.” I suppose I would reply that in exchange it has enjoyed—as my husband and I have enjoyed—a good, long run.
“Take plenty of pictures before you tear it down,” his daughter says.
This prospect is not hard to imagine, even if it’s gone. One of the thick center branches of the trunk was sliced o to create a stable foundation for construction. Removal will leave a gap tooth for a few months, but the tree is an expert at sprouting and colonizing its greenery. Soon it will inhabit the sunny space near its center and extend its far perimeter, including the top branches once famously visible from the freeway.
While the ash tree is reaching inward and skyward at the same time, down on the ground we humans will adapt to change and loss and our diminished capabilities, even as we seek, like the tree limbs, future growth and a clear path forward.
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