There was something special about growing up in an era when the sunshine was a little more golden. I was the middle of three brothers born three years apart, part of a yet larger family. It was mainly us against the 5 girls in those days. Being out numbered we sought out our own place where there were ‘no girls allowed’. Family politics didn’t nourish the concept so we set off to create our own.

Leaving the front porch behind, our little band crossed the road. The youngest wasn’t old enough to venture of his own volition, but was granted reprieves when accompanied. The eldest had received the standard reminder that he was in charge because he was the oldest and responsible for the other two. All this was forgotten once we crossed.

On the other side was a large rack where the electric company stored new utility poles for future use. A single layer of poles were laid side by side, once we climbed aboard we were in command of a huge raft fit for our voyage across the seas. Pirates were no match for our crew. Try as they might they were always defeated after an intense battle lead by cannon fire, culminating in the inevitable boarding party which we handily deflected with our sabers and tossed them overboard. Upon reaching the distant shore of our imagined sea we disembarked and headed down the embankment holding the creek at bay.

Nourishment to replenish our strength was provided by a bramble of blackberries and raspberries that grew wild along the water’s edge. Being well fed we crossed the fallen tree trunk to reach the other side where the path wound its way through the swampy woodland.This path was well trod by a number of young travelers en route to the far off next street over. Somewhere along the way it passed under the branches of an elm tree. Not far off the ground the tree had divided itself into three large trunks that seemed to be begging for habitation.

Previous efforts to purchase a BB gun without parental permission had failed so we reasoned that acquiring an ax to fell smaller trees for materials wasn’t likely. But the men who worked at Crook’s Memorials generously allowed us to cart off some of the packing crates the stones came in.

An earlier reconnaissance mission revealed that Mr. Monroe up the street had an impressive supply of nails in his shed. We knocked on his door and inquired if he had any that we might use. The disappointment must have been evident when he initially refused our request. But then he proffered a coffee can of rusty bent nails he had salvaged from old lumber himself. “You can have these if you straighten them” was the offer that sealed the deal.

No, we couldn’t borrow his hammer and we received a similar response when we asked Mom if we could take Dad’s. (Dad had passed a couple of years earlier and his tools were well guarded.) But Mr. Monroe had released an idea that we grasped reluctantly. Using stones as hammers we straighten out those nails, or nearly so, one afternoon. Our concerted effort must have softened Mom a bit as she relented and allowed us to borrow a hammer and a handsaw.

No time for a slow sea voyage this trip, so we flew across the great expanse, ignoring the sweet temptations of the berries we crossed the fallen tree trunk without thought and blurred down the path to our tree.

The first boards were nailed to one trunk and became our ladder to reach the chosen location where we attached three longer boards to form a triangle between the trunks. Across these we laid our floor boards, wondering how anyone could cut enough wood with a handsaw to build a house. It was exhausting work, and it didn’t help that the saw seemed to lack the ability to cross the board in a straight line.

Afterward the tree house became host to packed lunches and overnight excursions. A club was formed and rules established when a few friends wanted to share the adventures available there. Chief atop the list of rules was ‘No Girls Allowed’. Memories of riding the tree as it swayed in the wind remain still today.

But that day after nailing up the last board, only a pinch of nails left over, we sat reclining each against their own tree trunk relishing the glow of our sense of achievement. But it was short lived as the oldest stood, shading his eyes with his hand as he scanned the horizon and exclaimed, PIRATES!…..

More specifically, recently a good friend and neighbor passed away unexpectedly. Events such as this cause us to look back and remember our relationship with a friend. Our first meeting was 22 years earlier. He had been given my number by a colleague at work that we had worked for. When he called we went through usual list of questions and answers that our intended business required. Arriving at directions to his home I then asked if he would mind me stopping in right away. No, not at all, he said.

I walked over and knocked on his door. This caught him a little by surprise because only 3 minutes ago we were on the phone with each other. What we didn’t know at first was that we were new neighbors because our family had just moved in kitty corner to his. We were both amused by the coincidence. And that is how I met Jon Pipe.

Admittedly my main concern was to acquire a new client for our roofing business. At the time our main focus was exterior renovations in the Watertown and Jefferson county areas which required a constant flow of new customers. Usually referrals from past customers worked best and here was a prime candidate. But now there was the added fact that we were neighbors. Could a business and good neighbor policy blend well enough?

Apparently so, in fact I would say we actually became good friends. I give the credit to Jon mostly. He had a knack for drawing you out with his engaging personality. Perhaps it was his own career choice as an art teacher that taught him to do so. More than likely it was just part of him already that helped make him a great teacher. Regardless, he was able to make everyone feel good about themselves. It became a pleasure to stop in occasionally to just chat with him about whatever was the topic of the day.

Over the years we did nearly everything that was done in or on his home. As our business grew into other avenues he was always supportive. In his kitchen is the first engineered hardwood floor I ever installed and that was also where my son Jon mixed the entire tub of epoxy grout for the tiled counter top too soon and we had to work like mad men to get in on before it set up. Both caused a bit of stress at the time and became a source of humorous comments later.

No problem was insurmountable and a job well done always resulted in a welcome pat on the back. All of his intended projects were pretty well thought out before he called, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t entertain a fresh idea. I remember one call to simply add a closet turned into a major overhaul of the master bedroom with vaulted ceilings and expanded dressing area.

Certainly as a client Jon will be missed. But more so, the ‘hood has lost a good homey and many have lost a good friend. One of the few that many would say, Thanks for being a part of our lives.