part 2;
Jungle swings, cancer, school skits, fishing, swimming, rafts, fears, prayers, singing, guitar music, hide and seek, spying. These were all the things that made up the years that I lived under the branches of the trees.
“Mom, mom can we watch TV when we get home?” Kaylin my four year old calls to me interrupting my reverie. “Yeah can we?” Sam pipes in.
“Oh guys, can’t you wait until we get home? Don’t wish your life away for crying out loud.” I say with a tinge of exasperation. I’m the mom of six kids. Exasperation comes easily. At least I tend to use that as my excuse. In truth it’s a part of who I am. My name is Tonia. I’m the oldest of a family of 9. Yes nine children. But for the first twenty years of my life it was just a family of five. I know that stories are more interesting told from the third person. At least that’s what the writing experts say. But….I can’t separate myself from the story. As I tell it I’m living it. I ask myself why I am writing this, to sell, for my children to read. I myself am not even sure. But for now I write, because for years I’ve played with the idea. And now it is time.
I sift through the memories like I’m seventy years old trying to decide which one to start on, and can’t pick one. The overwhelming memory is extreme contentedness and a sense of wonder as to how my parents established that.
My parents were normal they were a logger and a farmer's daughter respectively. My mom is Canadian and met my dad on his property while traveling for a Mission on Vancouver Island. They courted by mail and married a bit older then most, at the ages of 23 and 24. My dad has always lived on the same piece of property. It’s a beautiful piece of property with woods, fields, a pond and a little tiny creek. Peaking through the trees we can see the Olympics and I still think its one of the top ten most beautiful spots to live.
“Come on lets go!” I hear myself saying and slip into another time, another decade. “I’m hurrying as fast as I can.” Karla says panting trying to gather up the toys she’d brought with her to school for show and tell. “Your as bad as Hocus-Pocus-Slowpoke.” I say rather impatiently. Hocus for those not in the know is my sisters palamino pony. He’s cute, but doesn’t like to move much. I’d rather run ahead, but I’ve been to look out for my younger siblings. Its something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let go of completely. Soon she’s ready and we head down the long driveway to our house.
We carpool each day with two other families in our little wood to a Christian school about five miles away. The other families bought their property from my parents. He likes to say he handpicked his neighbours. And I personally think he did a good job. Today Mrs. P has driven us. She’s the owner of the Crooked Tree. And we’ll come back here in a bit, but first we have to go home and touch base with my mom.
We head down the driveway not in too big of a hurry all of a sudden. The driveway is long, and there is much to look at. The woods are mossy, fresh and moist. I have been trained by my father to notice and appreciate the small details. I observe the sallow brush and the sword ferns and their varying shades of green. I study the small drainage ditch that runs along side the dirt driveway. Some days I will catch a frog jumping, but today its just barely babbling.
We are soon on the edge of my parents seven acres. They live nestled in the center of it. On either side are beautiful hand split rail fences. My dad made them. My horse, and my sibling's ponies are ranging on the right side pasture. “Hi Sadie!” I call overly enthusiastic. I’m young everything is met with that level of energy. I also have the combination of German and Irish blood flowing through my veins. It makes for loud effervescent energy.
As we enter down the driveway a bit further our small Benji type dog meets us. He’s ecstatic to see us and is wagging his tail and jumping all over us. “Hi Squeegie.” Joel says rubbing the dog's tummy. We all pet him until he’s calmed down a bit, and then head towards our house.
Our house, it was a beautiful place. My parents built it out of logs my dad logged himself. It wasn’t huge, just the perfect size for us four bedrooms, a nice living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom combined with laundry room. The door was built out of one thick six-inch slab of wood. My dad had carved it with his chain saw. Nestled in the middle of it was an antique stain glass window my mom had found at a second-hand store. My mom likes second hand stores. We’ve spent a lot of hours searching for treasures in them. The door handle didn’t turn like normal doors. Instead you slid it to the right to slide the piece of wood that connected to the wall back into hiding inside the door. It was unique. I liked feeling unique.
As we opened the door we shouted. “Mom we’re home!” And it was a wonderful comforting feeling. The house smelled like dinner, and trees. We threw our coats in the general direction of the nook where they belonged. And rushed to my mom to tell her about our day. The hallway was covered with rock slate. My mom put it there thinking there was no possible way we could damage it with our muddy boots. She was right too. On my left side was the stairs that went up to the bedroom. The stairs were carved out of one big log with my dad’s chain saw. The handrail was a crooked bendy log about 3 inches in diameter. My dad had found it in the woods one day when he was logging. He had chipped the bark off of it, and our hands over the years had polished it glossy.
When they had chosen to build a house moving out of my dad’s childhood home, my dad had said. “I can’t build with a hammer and nails, but if I can use a chain-saw and axe I can do it.” And do it he did. It was unique, and possibly a bit funky, but in my child's eye it was perfect.
”Hey mom guess what, we’re having a skit day, and we need the perfect skit to do.” I said babbling on. “I was thinking it would be fun for everybody from the Crooked Tree to be in one. You did lots of camp stuff, do you have one we can do?” I asked speaking fast so that my brother and sisters less important conversations wouldn’t interrupt me.
Mom held her hand up in the sign that universally means its entirely too loud. “Wait, one at a time. You first.” She pointed to me. I repeated my question quickly. “I know lots of skits, let me think about it for awhile…” It was enough of an answer for me. I ran upstairs to get out of my stupid skirt and into play clothes. I hated my skirt, but it was required at the Christian school I went to. At least I didn’t have to wear a uniform anymore…that had been much worse.
I pulled faded jeans on, and a play shirt. My clothes were left where they dropped as I ran outside to feed Sadie. I knew the routine. It got dark around here early I wanted to play as long as possible before being trapped in the house for the night. I heard Karla and Joel doing similar things. My mom didn’t require us to do home work when we got home, she wanted us to wiggle while we could. I’m so glad she let us be kids.
Soon our horses were fed and we were biking down the driveway. “We’ll be at the crooked tree.” I yelled. The long driveway that had seemed interminable a few minutes earlier passed in seconds. My brother biked passed the crooked tree he was headed to his best-friends house. They’d be back sooner or later. My friend wasn’t at the tree. This meant she’d been forced into chores. It was okay. I would climb the crooked tree to its top and study the view and dream. I loved to climb, and the view up there was spectacular.
Even if it did rain cats & dogs...and make us rather rush the easter egg hunt. LOL
