My sister had been pestering my father for a tree house for months.
– All my friends have got one.
– Use theirs then.
– It’s not the same, my sister wailed.
– Why don’t I just throw a shed up into the ash tree’s branches? my father said. You can use that.
– You always say something like that when you don’t want me to have nice things, my sister whinged. It’s so unfair. All my friends think I’m a freak because I don’t have a tree house. It’s embarrassing.
– Well, you should always listen to your friends.
– What do you mean? my sister asked suspiciously.
– What I say. It’s not a secret message.
– I don’t understand.
– I’m just saying your friends are right, that’s all.
My sister smiled victoriously.
– I knew it, she said.
My father walked slowly down to the bottom of the garden. I followed him discreetly.
Right at the foot of the garden, about four feet away from the fence that separated my father’s garden from the neighbour’s garden was an ash tree. Ash trees grow very straight and very tall. This one was no exception; it had been there for years and was very straight and was about thirty feet high.
My father looked at the ash tree for a very long time.
– That ash tree’s got to go, he muttered. Read more…
My Father’s Garden: Tree House
Copyright © R J Dent (2014)