My Side of the Mountain

Sometimes, the very best afternoons are the ones in which you and one of your favorite friends spend it building a fort in your unfinished yard.

Your hillbilly yard.

The yard in which no one even realizes that you have a couple large sheets of plywood propped up against the house, because the plywood really doesn’t distract from all the weeds and rough terrain.

For the record, now that construction on the house is basically done, the landscaper has been called.  And he has been here with his tape measure.  And he has said the words Skid Steer, sprinklers, Aspen trees and labor.  This man may become our new best friend, if his bid comes in at Low American Dollars.  Otherwise, he’ll simply be known as the One Good Hope Which is Now Dead to Us, and Hubs and I will press on, living the dream of being the Neighborhood Hillbillies.

The boy and his buddy, Kellen, spent two and a half hours yesterday afternoon hauling scrap lumber around and situating it just so.  The end result was a lean-to structure propped against our house which would not have survived a storm with any real wind speeds (like we experienced today), but which was exactly right for sitting in and concocting all kinds of secret plans about forming a club in which girls would never be given the secret passwords.

I think it’s because, even at the tender age of ten, these two boys realize that if girls get their hands on the secret passwords, it’s only a matter of three minutes before they come in and hang window treatments in your lean-to, and then ask you why on earth you haven’t swept the dirt floor, laid down a tarp to cover up the weeds, and whether or not you’ve plugged a rabbit yet for the evening’s stew, as they completely disregard your enormous plans of just eating Cadbury Eggs for dinner.

Girls.

They can cause a guy so much grief.

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