My Secret Childhood Place

As a child the old tree house was the best hiding place. It had these dark knots in the base that I used as a ladder to climb into its high limbs. The tree house had no door but an opening just big enough for a 7-year-old to squeeze into. There were no windows just four pieces plywood for walls painted green and brown to match the tree.  There was not technically ceiling, it was the branches of the tree itself lush and green in the spring and summer. During the summer you could be part of the family Robinson stranded on an island without a person for miles or just read the comic books that my mom did not like me to read. My sister was not strong enough to climb the tree, she would stand at the base screaming up at me.  Never really able to actually see me hiding there among the branches.  Laying on the floor I could peak down through the doorway of the aged wood and see if she was still there. I never was sure when she would give up and go get mom.  I would have just enough time as she ran into the back door of the house to jump down and run around the side of the house like I was never up there to begin with.