Simplicity

We had a beautiful house. We bought it for a steal of a price--the only way we could afford to be in that neighborhood of old money. The previous owner had put renters in the house and then moved to Florida, much too far away to properly supervise the individuals who were slowly ruining their property. But my family knows construction and remodeling, so that was no concern.

The house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, with weeping willows and oaks shadowing the large yard. There was a creek running through the middle of the back yard, and during the week we moved in, we found a nest of baby rabbits. We caught frogs from the stream, and my mother lovingly gassed and disected them to quell her curiosity as a nursing student.

We played in the living room, doing cartwheels and choreographing dance routines to Paula Abdul. We pulled crystals from the old chandelier that lay on the floor of the family room, then used the pilfered crystals as currency when creating our own little play world of car dealerships and smalltown diners.

We stole gardening shears from the garage and hollowed out an old pine tree until we had a certifiable hideaway. We dreamed up elaborate treehouses that our father would never build. We used the willows to swing through our makeshift jungle. We turned the creek into a gourmet mud kitchen, baking pies on the driveway. We climbed in the apple tree, scraping our knees royally each time we fell.

We donned raincoats over our winter gear and slid down iced driveways in the winter. We used garbage can lids as sleds. We threw snowballs on Halloween. We raked leaves into piles that never remained piles long, for their entire purpose was to be jumped in. We ran through sprinklers. We picked flowers that had been recently planted, and then lied about where we had gotten them.

We were kids. For a brief, yet beautiful, period in our lives, we were allowed to be children.