In 1979 when I was 21 years old I planted a magnolia tree in my mother’s yard. It was my young man’s intention that this tree would be for my offspring to climb.  

My mother’s friend, Emogene Williams, admired my little tree. She taught me to scatter the ashes* from the fireplace around the drip line. Wise Miss Emogene comes from a world where nothing is wasted.  What can be more worthless than ashes?

What can be better than ashes? I now live in that house and that tree has thrived. It was already fifty feet high in 1995 when a tornado kicked up by Hurricane Opal knocked down a pine tree that whacked fifteen feet from the top.

Undaunted, that tree continues to grow and grow.

When my son, Liam, was 8, we built his treehouse. When it comes to magnolia trees we Irwins are limbs-to-the-ground people. Think giant shrub. To build the treehouse we cut out the lower limbs on one side and erected an eight-by-eight platform using the trunk as a corner support.

The tree itself afforded easy access to the platform, but Liam and his friends wanted a trap door and a ladder. I did the cutting, but the plan was all theirs.

Of course, safety was a priority. When ever Liam’s friends came over, I had them stand before me to recite the rules aloud.

   ANDY: What’s the first rule?
   KIDS:  Don’t fall and die.
   ANDY: How do you not fall and die?
   KIDS:  Have three points of contact on the    
              tree at all times.
              Test limbs. Grasp or step on limbs
               up close against the trunk. If a      
               branch doesn’t have leaves, don’t
               use it.
               Don’t be stupid.
   ANDY: Because?...
   KIDS:  Don’t fall and die.

Liam built a metal-roofed shelter on half of that original platform. Lots of painting was done with illustrations of an automotive motif. The railing was adorned with hubcaps. You’d be amazed at how many hubcaps a family can accumulate when a nine-year-old is constantly on the lookout.

“Papa stop! There’s one in that ditch!”

Or...
“Papa, stop! Somebody’s throwing away a door!”

Two horizontal doors make a wall.

I always kowtowed.

Another floor was raised above the original. A wrought iron garden side table became a dining table. Parties were had. Pizza was consumed. There were many conversations away from the ears of grownups.

There was only one incident: Cole Grady tripped and fell when he jumped off the ladder. He cut his hand on Liam’s homemade sled, which was fashioned from the one-piece wrap-around sides of a large, stainless steel microwave oven, repurposed for an unexpected late February snow.

Know you this: the only construction I did on this treehouse was the original platform, the rustic railings of yew and Osage Orange branches, and the trap door. Oh sure, I cut a few boards, but the measuring and design was Liam’s and his crew.

Of course, I ascended the entire tree from time to time with a pruning saw dangling from my belt to cut dead branches, or ones that may be too small, yet tempting.

As it is with construction rendered by children, the look was much more “Our Gang” than “Better Homes and Gardens.”
                               •   •   •
Over this past holiday break my kid, now a senior in high school, built a two-bay carport in our backyard for his automotive projects. To make room we had to take some ground limbs and root suckers out of a different magnolia tree, this one planted by my grandfather. At this moment that new “treehouse” shelters a yet-to-run Range Rover and a yet-to-run MG Midget. (There is also a feral jaguar somewhere on the property.) Our two kayaks hang from the rafters on a series of ropes and pulleys that can be raised and lowered from one ratchet strap. I cannot begin to wrap my head around how it works.

Our neighbor, Fred Franklin — a real live steeplejack — has come over to inspect and give advice. He is one of Liam’s mentors. The two of them talk tools and support and angles and design.

I stand, useless.

There a meme that’s gone around: “Never make fun of having to help me with computer stuff. I taught you how to use a spoon.”

That’s really a desperate little quote about grownups maintaining a semblance of power.

But if you really empower a kid, they’ll pass you at twelve.

I just hope mine remembers, I taught him to use a screwdriver.
                               •   •   •
*Oh, yeah, that asterisk on the second paragraph: make sure your ashes are cold. There is a reason that our most gnarled camellia is named “Lazarus.”

A native of Covington, Andy Offutt Irwin is a storyteller, songwriter, and professional whistler. He can be reached at andy@andyirwin.com.