By Justin Isherwood
There is a stage in the life of a kid that can be described as the treehouse phase. I was not the only kid so afflicted, it began soon after I could use a hammer and so wage honest combat with nails, and this specific pedigree when combined with an ample supply of scrap lumber, an assortment of windows, here to add hinges, bits of rope, some roofing felt and the destiny of a treehouse kid was underway as it is well-endowed.
Our farm had a sawmill. There was an age once when a sawmill was the expected grace of a farmstead. As every building, roof, wall, partition, stall, mow floor, truck box, cupboard, cupboard shelf and fertilizer hopper was made of wood. Plywood was yet rare, so every essential crib, cubical and carbuncle on the farm was born of the woodlot, sawed into boards by a circular demon out back.
Beneath the siding of the farmhouse were rough-cut boards of the sawmill, un-planed if reasonably of the same thickness. When it came to rough-cut it didn’t much matter if it was pine, oak, even elm if nailed home green.
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