In Wednesday's column about woodworking, I might have given the impression that I've never touched tools before. That isn't true. This post was ready to go over the summer, then never ran. I'm not sure why.
Maybe I wanted to keep The Fort private. I haven't mentioned it here before, to my recollection. A structure built in the backyard for the boys when they were small. Maybe it was somehow special, to me — the boys won't care one way or the other — and I didn't want to turn it into material. Not everything is for public consumption. You're allowed to keep some things for yourself. But that ship has sailed, hasn't it? Maybe I just didn't want to offer up to public scrutiny an amateur structure that I designed and built. That sounds right. This is from my unpublished travelogue, "The Quest for Pie," written about a five-week trip across the country I took with the boys in 2009 when they were 12 and 13. In this section, I am wondering whether to really go through with the trip, simply because I said that we would.
Selfishness is a father’s friend, or can be. If you view everything you do for your kids as a sacrifice, every effort as putting yourself out over something you aren’t interested in and getting nothing in return for your trouble, then you’re going to end up not doing much with them. Where luck comes in is when a dad does what he wants to do, and it ends up being good for his children as well. This trip thing, I realized, might work to my advantage. I had been beavering away at the newspaper business for years, for decades, scrambled to the top of this small hill at the very moment it was being washed away. Now I was king of the damp, dwindling mound. Why not take a break to travel, to reflect? What was I afraid of?
And I had a previous experience, a template for rashly committing myself to an endeavor that turned out to be both a ton of effort and worth it. We moved to the suburbs from the city nearly a decade earlier, when Ross was about to enter kindergarten. That wasn’t a coincidence. The Chicago public schools try hard but fall short — way short. Ross was a bright, mischievous, talkative little boy, and just the thought of sending him to a substandard city school felt like contemplating child abuse. The public schools weren’t good enough and we couldn’t afford private school. Hence the suburbs, our only option. Ross was as nostalgic and change-averse as any 5-year-old, and didn’t want to go. Hoping to soften the transition, I promised him that, after the big move, he would have a play fort in our ample backyard. What kid doesn’t want a play fort?
A couple years later, we’re living in our old shambling ruin of a home, an aluminum-sided former farmhouse built in 1905, on its half-acre lot in Northbrook with The Forest running down one edge. “So…” I said, probing. “What do you want to do this summer?”
“Oh I don’t know…” Ross said, laying the trap. “I wouldn’t mind playing in my fort.”
He looked hard at me. Oh right the fort, I thought. I did promise you that, didn’t I? I should pause here to touch upon the idea of unfulfilled paternal promises. When I was growing up, my father often told me how, when he was a boy, his father Sam, a sign painter in the Bronx, tricked him into working every Saturday morning at his sign shop with the promise of a real Lionel train set, the Holy Grail toy for boys in the 1940s, which my grandfather claimed he had already acquired, and was on a certain high shelf in the sign shop, waiting to be earned. He pointed out the box to my father on his first day at work.
My father cleaned brushes and painted what he could that Saturday and on many Saturdays to come. Then one day, curious, he got on a chair to take a peek at this train set he would be getting, and it turned out the box supposedly filled with his reward was merely the transformer from a neon sign. There was no train set. There had never been a train set.
Something about that story lodged under my skin. Maybe it was the high shelf, or the bald lie of my grandfather’s. The haunting image of a train set that wasn’t there, compounded by the variety of half-plans that my father, despite his own disappointments, nevertheless had dangled in front of me. We would climb Mount Rainier together. The family would move to a series of cities, from London to Baltimore. He would buy a car for me when I turned 16. It never happened. Nothing ever seemed to happen.
Okay, that’s harsh. Good things did happen. They did. When I was a teenager, my father spent two summers working in Boulder, Colorado and took the family along. We hiked the Arapahoe Glacier in Rocky Mountain National Park. When business took him to Europe, we all went to Geneva for a month, then London and Paris for a week apiece. One summer, while I was away at camp, my father built in our backyard something we called “The Shed,” but was actually an attractive, well-built, two-story A-frame structure — cherry-stained, matching our home, with double doors that swung out to store the lawnmower and his tools on a tongue-in-groove floor below solid enough to drive a truck on, with a wooden ladder that led up through a trap door to a space above, a secret clubhouse just for me with a skylight window that opened. It was fantastic, and that I would initially overlook it and give the impression I was raised in a closet should tell you something important about myself.
Memories of that structure were foremost in mind while I was dismissing, out–of-hand, the play fort kits that suburbanites buy at garden centers and put outside their custom-built, million-dollar homes. The kind with the little strip of green fabric as a roof and the flimsy yellow slide. Those pre-fab forts struck me as an astounding lapse, a mystifying cheapness, similar to how some people stick stackable white plastic chairs out on the luxurious wrought iron balconies of their four-story townhouses. My father designed and built The Shed; I would design and build The Fort. For who wants to be a lesser man than his father?
I bought a big pad of blue-square graph paper, sharpened pencils and sat planning with a ruler at the dining room table. The Fort had to sleep four — two sons and two friends. It had to have a ladder and a slide and a cargo net. It must be made of cedar: there would be no need for stain or paint.
Eventually the drawings were done — careful schematics, precise scale plans, thanks to a mechanical drawing class taken in 7th grade. A front view; a side view, a 3-D view. The Fort wasn’t in a tree, but stood on four five-foot-tall, 6 x 6 beams standing atop four concrete footings. To support the structure, the footings — I calculated — should be three feet deep. How much concrete would you need for four cylindrical footings, each 10 inches in diameter and a yard deep? Nearly a thousand pounds, dry.
A week passed. Two. I contemplated the drawings. Really, very nicely done, very skillful drawings. The fort had a porch and a flagpole. It looked like a lot of fun to play on, and a world of work to build. I’d never done anything like it. An incredible task, to actually construct this thing. What was I thinking, taking on this burden? Just because I’d promised my son I would? The most complex structure I had built up to that point was a compost bin behind the garage, a rectangular box lined with chicken wire. Building it took a day.
But if I balked, what would I do? Show the drawings to the boys someday, tell them: this was the fort I was going to build you, but I chickened out? That sounds familiar. My Lionel train set on the high shelf.
No. Impossible. I would build the Pyramids if doing so kept me from being a disappointment to my boys. I went to Home Depot, took one of those low rolling orange platform carts and piled it with nearly 1,000 pounds of concrete — a dozen 80-pound bags. The platform was very heavy, slow to get moving — you had to really lean into it — and tough to push. And at one point, between the concrete section at the far wall and the registers up front, I stopped and just stood there, thinking, “This is insane.” I hesitated for what seemed like a long time, in the middle of the vast warehouse of a Home Depot, frozen before a pallet of concrete, hands around the scuffed metal bar, my own life, stretching back in my head, and the life I hoped for my boys stretching forward. Hope for a life where they might be better off, better tended, better loved, just in general better than their father. I weighed the thought of returning to the concrete section, pictured sliding the bags back into their places. Looked at the thought, almost as if it were a small object nestled in my hand. Then I made a decision, firm and irrevocable, tightened my grip on the bar, bent forward and pushed that concrete until it started to roll toward the checkout counter.
The Fort took three summers to build, from the time I staked out the holes and began to dig, to when I nailed in the last cedar shingle in place and signed a hidden message to the boys high up on a beam facing the eaves. The three of us slept in it that night, the night I completed it, a jumble of pillows and sleeping bags, a rare warm November night. They never slept in it again. But they play in it sometimes, during Super Soaker battles and snowball fights. It looks swell, gentling aging in the seasons, the cedar slowly going to gray, like the guy who built it, and while I wish I had started a few summers sooner, I never regretted all the time and effort and money it took to build. I think some of the happiest moments of my life were standing out back in the summer sun, with the yellow DeWalt chop saw set up on the deck, a boombox blasting music, cutting the lumber for that structure, kneeling on the half-completed flooring to screw planks into place, standing up with a pencil behind my ear and a leather belt heavy with tools slung low on my hips. The big hexagonal-head stainless steel carriage bolts used for the ladder — stainless so they wouldn’t rust and streak the wood — were a joy to hold in the flat of my hand and contemplate; so well machined, they made me proud to be a human being.
The Fort was in mind when I considered the trip. I could ignore it, for a while, and did. But I could not abandon it. A promise is a promise.
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