The school handed out another weekend assignment.
Not long ago there had already been that book fair routine with sign-ins and stamps, and now on Friday another task showed up: donate books, collect a certificate, get another stamp on a slip of paper, walk through a tent area pretending to browse books, then receive a printed sheet, plus another printed commendation for donating books.
I’ve never been especially enthusiastic about physical books. A big reason is practical: when you move, books are heavy.
After finishing the whole process, we went into the park for a walk.
The sun was brutal. My scalp felt like it was burning. I pulled up the hood on my sun jacket, which helped a little. The younger one said I looked like I was wearing samurai gear.
It wasn’t any cooler up on the hill. Around the artificial lake there were crowds everywhere, tents everywhere, and someone was even singing karaoke. On the big lawn, the sprinklers were running. A lot of kids were gathered around the hoses, playing in the spray while the grass was being watered. Their shoes were already covered in muddy water.
My younger one wanted to join them. I just kept walking forward. Seeing that we weren’t stopping, he gave up on the water and followed us.
Eventually we found a spot by the water with a cluster of willow trees. There was at least a little breeze there, though no place to sit, so we squatted on the ground. I asked the two kids how they thought iron chains were made. They each came up with their own ideas, something not unlike the way carved stone chains are made. Then I gave them my guess: short iron bars, cold-rolled, then welded together.
A moment later I noticed a large pine tree that looked surprisingly climbable. I told the kids they should give it a try. I even joked that before climbing they should take off all their clothes so they wouldn’t tear them up. I’d heard a story once about someone’s older brother doing exactly that.
The two of them just stared at the tree and didn’t dare start.
After urging them a few times and seeing that they still had no idea how to begin, I took a closer look and climbed up myself. It only took a few seconds. I got onto the lower branch fork on the right side, like in the picture.
That immediately made the younger one shout that he wanted to try. I braced one foot on a branch, crouched down, grabbed his raised hands, and with one squat-lift hoisted him up. He was pretty scared. He stayed only a short while before asking to come down again, so I slowly lowered him back to the ground.
There wasn’t much fun in sitting up there alone, so I climbed down too. Then I told them about the treehouse from years ago.
When I was little, we used to roam all over the place. Next to the state hospital there was a patch of vegetable fields, and beside those fields stood some old elm trees. One of them had a treehouse in it. I never knew whether it had been built for watching over the crops or just for resting in the shade. Whenever we climbed up, there was never anyone there. If we had seen people, we wouldn’t have dared go up.
Inside, it was very simple, just some worn bamboo mats laid down. It was big enough for at least one adult to sleep there. Two kids lying there was no problem at all. Sometimes we’d take a nap there in the afternoon. Sometimes we’d just stretch out for a while. It was wonderfully cool in the breeze.
If I had nothing better to do now, I’d probably be tempted to tidy up that pine tree and make a treehouse out of it too. Though on public land, security would probably never allow it.
After hearing that story, the younger one got interested in climbing for real. Since he wanted to go up, I supported him and dragged him into place. Once he was up there and got used to it, he suddenly didn’t want to come down.
While he sat there, my mind wandered. I thought of fantastical trees from fiction, trees that after a hundred thousand years had evolved eyes, and then of those mobile purple-leafed trees from science fiction. Then I thought of Venus flytraps, which for now only eat tiny protein-rich insects. Given another hundred thousand years, who knows—maybe they’ll move around too. And if a hundred thousand years isn’t enough, then add more time.
The younger one, at least, wasn’t scared anymore. He said that if trees could move, they’d basically be Night Elves.
Then two men came over and started setting up a tent only about two meters from us. I checked the time and figured it was about time to leave anyway. The younger one was thirsty, and our water bottle was still back on the electric scooter.
So we packed it in and headed out.