Lofty thoughts

I really loved to get high when I was a kid. It doesn't appeal to me as much anymore, but back a few 50 or 60 years ago there was nothing that I liked better.

I liked to get high up in a tree. Roofs were made to climb on. And getting to the top of any hill was a must.

The next best thing to getting high was jumping off a high place. I still remember the pride my sister showed in me when I could jump off the top of eight steps at our house in Washington, D.C.

For years I had balked at that top step that seemed so much higher than the mere seven below; but, once it was mastered, I don't think I ever bothered to walk down the steps again.

Back on the farm the same joy came when I got the nerve to jump out of the hayloft window. We usually had a ladder propped up against this window so we could climb up and play in the musty darkness. There was no need to jump down, but it was a sign of maturity to make the leap. I'll admit I did it from a sitting position so I merely scooted out and dropped.

But I did it.

The same house in Washington that had the eight steps in the front had a wonderful slanting roof that could be reached from our bedroom window.

I loved to sit out there and survey the neighborhood. I could look down on the apple trees that beautified our back lawn. I could also see beyond the lawn, into our neighbors' spacious lawns and check on whether anyone was available to play. I never attempted to jump from this roof as it was above a porch that was above a full basement. (I did however have it in my secret escape plan if the Lindbergh baby's kidnapper would ever try to come get me!)

My favorite places to get high were here in Vernon County on the farm. The smokehouse roof was not very high but it was a comfortable place to escape for some serious reading (If it wasn't being used for a game of Ante-Over).

The apple trees in the corner of the yard were great for climbing, especially when you could supplement your lunch with a juicy snack. However we discovered the hard way that when the tree was loaded with fruit, two or three young bodies out on a limb were too much. A big crabapple tree got severely damaged by our overzealous fruit picking.

When I drive around the country I see manufactured tree houses for children connected with a sliding board and swing set. I know they are fun for the children, but they can't compare to the ones constructed by the children themselves.

Our youngest daughter found solace after a move away from her siblings and friends, by creating a tree house in a beautiful red maple tree in the parsonage back yard.

It wasn't long before she found new friends to join her on the elevated platform. She used this spot even into her teen years for a quiet place away from the world.

Some long-time residents of Nevada may remember the monstrosity that the young son of Dr. Charlie Caldwell constructed in the backyard of the United Methodist District office on North Olive Street back in the 1960s and '70s. He never got it completely finished, but kept adding to it each season. His father checked it for safety but ignored neighbors' comments to allow his son this spot of freedom.

If I can find an appropriate tree in our lawn, I may even get high again -- with our 12-year-old great-granddaughter. I will not try to jump out, however.