The Playhouse

[I've been working on a project that I'm finding difficult, but I have to finish it. I MUST! You see, I heard my mother's voice telling me, as she often did, "You are just like your father." She didn't necessarily mean that in a good way. Every time I think those words, my memories are transported to the summer of 1961.]

My father’s ice blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and a smile creased his leathery face as he leaned over the breakfast table. He whispered to us, as if there were a Great Conspiracy, “I’m gonna build you kiddos a Playhouse.”

The crowd went wild! We roared with delight. All four of us jumped up from our places, leaving fried eggs and bacon untouched, as we danced around the room squealing with glee. We peppered him with questions: “Will it look like a castle? Can we have a turret room, so I can pretend I’m Rapunzel and let down my hair? Can we have a bathroom in it? Will there be an air conditioner?”

We were young. Life had not yet taught us to temper Hope with Caution.

That morning we skipped through the neighborhood, bragging to all our friends, “Our Daddy is going to build us a Playhouse.” It thrilled us to see the rich girls who lived on the corner turn positively chartreuse with envy. Their Daddy hadn’t built them a Playhouse. Why, their Daddy probably didn’t even know how to hold a hammer! Our Daddy was talented. Our Daddy could do anything! It was all we could do to wait until weekend, when our father would build our dream house. We were so proud.

That Saturday, the Grand Project began. Several of my father’s friends joined him that morning. I no longer remember their faces, but I recall their backs bent in labor under the hot Texas sun, as the skeleton of our Playhouse rose from the wooden platform that was its foundation. Those muscled backs glistened with sweat that flowed as freely as the laughter … and the Pearl beer. By nightfall, our Playhouse was framed.

On Sunday, it rained. Daddy couldn’t build in the rain, but he promised us that he would get back to our Playhouse very soon … as soon as he could … when he had some time again … but he had some work next week, and he would be very busy.

We choked back tears as we thought silently, “Not again.”

We had been there before. My Daddy, you see, was “A Dreamer.” My mother had said that often enough that we knew it to be true. Daddy was full of grand ideas … he had the best ideas in the whole world! He had the skills to do anything. Name it. My Daddy could do it. My father was the most talented man I have ever known.

But, Daddy lacked the “follow through,” as Momma often reminded him. Daddy’s enthusiasm for a project always waned quickly; he was easily distracted. Once his initial burst of energy was gone, he abandoned projects and left them unfinished. Our house was littered with projects like that. He wouldn’t do that with our Playhouse …

would he?

The skeleton of that Playhouse mocked us as the summer passed. At first, when Daddy came home from work each day, we asked him, “Daddy, will you finish our Playhouse this weekend?” But, as the saying goes, “Momma didn’t raise no fools.” As Daddy’s temper rose, we learned to just keep our mouths shut and wait.

Perhaps my Momma made him feel guilty, “Rains will be coming soon, and all that lumber will get ruined.” Maybe he saw our tears when the neighborhood kids snickered about our unfinished Playhouse.

One morning we woke to the sound of hammering. Dashing outside, we saw our father working alone on our Playhouse. This time, no laughter flowed — only sweat and curses, as my father grudgingly toiled on his creation. The air turned blue above that Playhouse as my father’s vast repertoire of profanity flew whenever a hammer blow fell wrong, a nail dropped from the hand, or a shingle slipped. However, before the darkness fell, Daddy had finished the roof, had put plywood on the sides, and had covered that plywood with hideous black tar paper.

Although the Playhouse lacked siding, a door, and the windows were not set, we could finally play inside it. We did so with great enthusiasm for the two weeks before the Winter came blasting into Texas. At least we had a Playhouse. It was as ugly as Sin, but it was ours.

We heard our parents in whispered argument, as my Daddy assured her he would get the Playhouse finished by next summer. It didn’t happen. When springtime rolled around, Daddy had a lot of work. He was as busy as the bees — and the wasps — that took up residence in our Playhouse.

That summer we rarely went inside the Playhouse at all, because we were afraid of the wasps (and I was allergic to the yellow jackets). We had also seen a snake, which could have been a copperhead, slither into the space at the base of the foundation. We begged Daddy for a door and windows to no avail. Before the summer was out, Daddy pronounced, “Since y’all won’t use your Playhouse that I built you, I’ll just use it for storage.”

That was the death knell for our Playhouse. It stood staring at us with blank eyes for years in our back yard, filled with the flotsam and jetsam of my father’s electrical business. A metaphor for my Daddy’s dreams, it stood unfinished. While the torn black tar paper of the Playhouse flapped in the breeze, we could hear it whispering — taunting us for our hubris.

Other posts you might enjoy:

1. All Roads Lead To Rhome
2. Up A Creek Without A Paddle
3. Thursday Thirteen #14—Parental Advice
4. Wistful Thinking
5. The Daddy Doll

Tagged as: Memories, Storytelling