I Love a Good Fort

"SNOWBALL FIGHT!" Those were two of the best words growing up in Tennessee. Anyone who has been a resident of this lovely state can attest that those two words are beautiful because of their scarcity. We are lucky to experience any snowfall that is capable of supporting an epic snow battle. You need the perfect constitution of snow of snow to form a good snowball. If it isn't compact-able and breaks apart before you even rear back to throw, that is no beuno. And we have all felt the cold sting of a mostly ice snowball; it isn't pleasant.

Oh, but on those glorious days when the snow formed into the perfect circular shape and burst upon impact, life was good. After taking a few minutes to go crazy and run aimlessly through the yard pummeling all participants, it was time to strategize. I was brilliant and quickly assessed our backyard and deemed the two story fort the prime location for home base.

The fort was seated in the direct center of our backyard and 50 yards from the back property line. This provided a perfect vantage point for a full scale attack. Soldiers on the ground were helpless once I scaled the side of the fort to rest atop the roof. I bombed opponent after opponent as they dared approach my tower.

Cold war battles weren't the only reason I loved our fort. It was established in the spring of 1992. Our family arose early one morning and my dad took on the responsibility of foreman and construction worker and began barking his orders. I felt so unbelievably cool getting to hammer in nails and carry supplies up the ladder to my dad. At the time I thought he kept giving me these important tasks because I was crucial to the development of this masterpiece. As an adult, I realize that he was just keeping my eager and clumsy hands as far away from the actual construction as possible. Diddy erected the entire fort and Mom, Sarah, HB, and I pretended to help.

The layout was epic. Facing the fort you were met with a slide on the left and the ladder to the second level on the right of the main structure. In between the slide and ladder was the bottom level (a lemonade stand would grace the presence of that floor a few years later when Sarah and I started our not so lucrative business, but that is a different story). The top story had an opening out the back that connected with a net ladder leading to the ground. Extending out of the right side of the fort was a large beam that supported a tire swing. A hammock also hung from the right corner and attached to the tree nearby. Don't fret, the left side did not disappoint. A large beam extended from that side to support several swings. One was for babies, two were normal, and one was a seesaw-ish shape with handles. They were all a good time.

I loved that fort. There was no limit to imagination when playing on its structure. I could be a pirate sailing the seven seas, a dedicated mother tidying my home, a secret society member hosting meetings, etc. My sisters and I would pile all the leaves that had fallen at the base of the slide and it provided a fun landing pad. We leapt from the swing just as it reached the highest arc. And, because we were fearless, we climbed to the roof to show our heart. It also provided a great brooding place when I got sick of being in a house with five other personalities as lively as mine.

Time and weather slowly took effect and the fort became dilapidated. For safety reasons my dad decided to tear it down when I was a senior in high school. The backyard just wasn't the same. Now if I am home when it snows I am forced to duck for cover behind trees and brave the open field instead of annihilating my opponents from my lofty perch. Alas, I am no longer invincible.

The Night the Burglar Came to My Room

It was a typical evening in the Caylor household. Dad was at work finishing his rounds and Mom was getting us ready for bed. Bath time went smoothly and it was not until I went to put on my pj’s that things got crazy.

I ran down the hall (we had bath time in my parent’s bathroom) and flipped on the light to Sarah (younger sister) and mine’s room. I picked out a sweet set of jammies for the both of us and ran back to hang out with Mom while Sarah finished her bath. After Sarah was squeaky clean and in the pj’s I brought her we walked into the hallway.

Mom abruptly stopped and stared into our bedroom with a very concerning look of trepidation. It freaked me out a little bit at age four or five or six –obviously my memory is excellent—to see her look so frightened. Before I realized what was happening she had grabbed the butcher knife from our kitchen and was quizzing Sarah and I on whether or not we had left our bedroom light on in the most frantic of whispers. I sure was not going to tell the hysterical woman wielding the glistening knife that I was the culprit. I watched anxiously as Mom inched toward our doorway. A few steps before reaching the threshold she had a change of heart and dropped the knife back off at the kitchen on her way to dragging us barefoot down the gravel driveway to our neighbor’s the Michaelcheck’s.

The moments following are blurry and I don’t remember any distinct details. My memory picks back up with me standing at my parent’s feet and looking up at their, what seemed giant at the time, silhouettes. I remember my Dad had arrived by that point and the grown-ups were standing around about to call the police about the burglar. Now it all clicked and I realized that Mom thought the light was on from a burglar. I knew that the cops meant serious trouble and that I had better speak up even though I feared the worst kind of punishment was about to be brought down on my head. I meekly tugged at Dad’s coat, and if you know me you know I do not do anything meekly so this was highly out of character for me, and timidly confessed my guilt in a barely audible tone.

There was instant relief that our home remained criminal free, but that was immediately followed by anger at me wasting their time. I reasonably explained my hesitation due to the intimidating appearance Mom gave off when I thought I was going to be chopped to little pieces for forgetting to turn the light off upon exiting my bedroom. They understood but sternly lectured me all the same about the consequences of not owning up to things. Believe me I thoroughly learned my lesson that night. We trekked back to our house and I slept easy knowing that the giant butcher knife was sheathed.