We had a tree fort in our yard allowing us an advantage.
The tree fort consisted of two triangles, one over the other, constructed around three beams each, hammered and then tied for extra security, to the tree’s three large trunks. The two triangles measured about four feet by six feet in length and overlapped slightly, allowing for a sliver of protection during rain and an angular, sharp, image as seen from the ground. There were no walls, only the two triangles and a series of shelves constructed on one of the trunks, holding nails, hammers, rocks and other simple tools. It was more of a platform, or two platforms, than a fort. We called it the fort.
It was about twenty to twenty five feet in the air, accessible via a knotted rope or a pulley system which relied on a huge pulley taken from a construction site. We tied the pulley to the tree about 30 feet in the air and used the simple device to pull up large beams (also taken from construction sites) plywood, friends and supplies such as sodas, candles and bricks.
In the past there was a simple ladder, made from pieces of pallet nailed into the side of the tree. We yanked them out of the tree to limit access the fort. Actually, we kept the first ten feet worth of pallet ladder in place and then yanked out and very loosely re-attached a couple of pallet steps halfway up. Only after the second kid had grabbed a loose pallet and had fallen backwards did the other kids realize access was limited. The ground below the tree consisted of a large circle of dirt with jutting roots and swarming ants, some of which we burned with a magnifying glass.
The grey tree allowed us to survey the surrounding yards and one neighbor’s bathroom, a vantage point closed off with curtains after Mr. Heinz saw us watching him take a dump.
During the summer, we simply climbed up, lied on the platforms, allowed the sunlight to flicker through the leaves above and tanned our thin arms brown, dreaming and planning for war.
Across the street, behind the Sullivan’s house stood another fort; a very boxy tree fort, about four feet off the ground, with a roof, walls and wooden shutters you could open and close. James Sullivan’s father worked in construction and he made sure the structure was not allowed to rise into the air as did ours. We had helped James build the fort and became fast friends during construction. We took some paint from a neighbor’s garage and painted the entire thing green.
With James’s fort and our fort we had the two bases required to play war. We were young, about 10 to 12 and each night’s news brought images of the end of the war in Vietnam. All our parents, raised in the old school, disciplined us by hitting, smacking and tossing us about when our behavior warranted such. Every day we played street hockey, emulating the Boston Bruins, Flyers or Rangers and every day someone fought. Violence was an integral, if less than wholesome, ingredient in our culture.
So, we played war. We wanted to fight and emulate the behavior pulsing from the news on TV, from Daily News, from our favorite hockey players and from the daily backhands of our parents. We divvied up anywhere from six to twenty kids into two nations (America and the Commies) and prepared for battle. We all hated the Commies. They trained the Vietcong, helped them dig tunnels and were ready to bomb the fuck out of us at the drop of a shoe. At dinner our parents talked about how they were passing us, leaving us behind. We wanted the Commies – every fucking man woman and child – dead and this was reflected in our game. In general the kids on the Commie team were pissed off as they were on the asshole team. They wanted to fuck the American team for fucking them. As our game began, without thinking we donned a uniform of hatred and turned our attention to organizing our game. Each team was organized into defense, to protect its home fort, offense, to bomb and attack the opposing fort and spies, to inflict unanticipated damage in and around the neighborhood.
One game in particular we only had four or five kids on each of two teams. That meant simple defense and offense. After losing the “once, twice, three … shoot” odd finger count we became the Commies. I was pissed and assumed defense of our tree fort twenty feet in the air. Though offense was more enjoyable as you were licensed to creep, prowl and hurl objects, defense was key in a smaller game. If your fort was captured you lost.
The game started as usual with both teams in the street, facing off and, then at the shout of “War!” each team ran to their respective forts. We had 30 minutes to prepare. Most of this time was spent determining if we should simply start a fight and how to best approach the enemy fort. To gain James’ fort, rear attack was the preferred method. To allow for a thorough rear action, our team traveled two blocks up a hill and then crept down from behind. I alone was to remain behind to guard our fort.
Armed with football helmets and stones, my team left me for their attack. In turn, I began to load a bucket attached to the pulley rope with bricks. Loading, pulling, climbing, unloading and going back down. This took about 10 minutes and provided enough bricks to span the perimeter of the lower triangle of my fort. I sent up my final gear: goalie mask, shin protectors, catcher chest protector, work gloves and an old 2’ by 2’ piece of plywood. I then lowered the pulley rope’s bucket to the ground, allowing for a tempting access point.
Once secure in the fort, I pulled up the second knotted rope and swung it over a branch in the hope it looked stuck, as opposed to placed, there. I donned my gear, laid on my back on the lower platform, surrounded by bricks, and waited. I spied the leaves above me and thought of war.
Softly at first I heard whispers and voices; jerky and hushed at first, then a bit louder.
Finally it started. A series of rocks sailed overhead and struck the bottom of the first platform. I hadn’t thought that it might hurt when the rocks hit the other side of the platform on which I was resting. It hurt like hell. The rocks continued to fly along with taunts. “We know you’re up there fuck face.” “You’re dead. You’re surrounded, douche bag. You’re fucked Commie asshole.”
The rocks continued to hit the bottom of the platform, with now larger ones being arced over the edge to hit me directly. My equipment bore the brunt of the salvos, with arcing rocks scored direct hits on my goalie mask, stomach (protected by a chest protector and piece of plywood) and shoulders (inadequately protected with the catcher chest protector). I lay silent through the rain of stone, absorbing the blows until, the whispers turned from taunts to questions, “Hey, you up there?” I don’t think anyone’s up there?” Then a pregnant pause. Silence.
I waited and stared at the pulley rope. It went taunt. The voices began to jell into a coordinated effort. Stan, the heavier of the two attackers stayed below and helped James, the smaller, by pulling one end of the pulley rope while James stood with a foot in the bucket and used his arms to pull himself up to swift victory. The rope began to move in the tell tale signs of a concerted effort. Pull, hold, pull, hold.
When I guessed James was about half way up, I turned on my side and pushed a load of bricks over the edge. James was missed however, Stan took a brick to the shoulder and arm, then after he fell to the ground a brick to the leg. After receiving the first blow, he released the rope and James fell to the dirt, landing hard and rolling backward. I launched the second wave of bricks. All but one missed James. Both were crying and ran from the yard. Our fort was safe. I organized some of the remaining bricks and stones on each side of me and returned to my position, looking up at the sunlight peeking through the leaves as they swayed back and forth warming my exposed skin and reflected on war.
Tags: 1970s, brick, childhood, Cold War, patience, planning, rope, strategy, tactics, tree fort, Vietnam War, violence
DA ZDRAVSTVUET BISLI!!
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