For several reasons I always looked forward to summertime. The last day of school was greatly anticipated. Kinda like saying “Amen” to a six-month-long prayer or blessing, or eating the last morsel of cake or pie. A time of adventure, a time of discovery — and sadly a time to be Daddy’s slave or convict, at least in our minds.

I might add that a dad’s mind and a boy’s mind don’t work — did I say work, there’s that word again — the same. He’s thinking “look at the pulpwood in that pine,” while the boy is thinking, “this pine tree would make one heck of a treehouse.”

Speaking of treehouses, Joe McCollum and I constructed our best-ever treehouse in the pine thicket immediately above the yonder side of the lake. It had it all — a roof, floor, window and a hinged door, all of which were compliments of a certain George W. O’Shields. However, somehow we forgot to ask him if we could borrow all that extra building material.

The entry up to the house was via several small wooden boards attached to two spindly pine trees adjacent to the house. One afternoon, I discovered that No. 8 nails were not long enough to support oneself while climbing up and down this contraption called a ladder. One of the steps pulled free as I started to descend, and I vaguely recall examining it during the nanosecond it took me to fall the 15 feet to the ground, knocking

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