1 Month Later

It was one month ago today that Dad passed away.
During this time of grief, obscure, fond memories have bubbled to the surface, moments I haven't thought about in years.
I worry about the memories fading, about me failing to pass on his story to my children. I grieve over not getting the chance to engage in one last adventure with him.
I feel his soul and spirit all around me, when I'm out running, when I'm trying to be a good father, when I'm challenging myself to do the kinds of things that would make him proud.
One of these challenges has been a backyard treehouse I've spent several months now toiling over. Heavy rains this winter slowed progress, but I'm close to getting it safe enough for the kids to climb on.
The treehouse idea started in the complicated mind of my son, Curt. Several years ago, after watching a "Little People" video, he asked me to built him a treehouse. At the time, potty training was an issue.
My construction skills also could be called into question. Dad could turn a piece of wood into a nuclear power plant. During recent visits home, I've noticed more and more all the guns, chests and frames that he built.
Amazing.
Meanwhile, my attempts at wood-working have been restricted to staining and installing shelves. I haven't had the patience to take a chisel and toil for hours over a 1-square-inch space of wood, like Dad did on so many of the muzzleloaders he built.
Instead, unlike anyone else in the family before me in recent memory, I've taken to music. I write it, play it, record it, produce it and put it on CD. I've probably got 100 songs in my musical Rolodex. Music is my muzzleloader.
It's not the kind of stuff worthy of a record contract, but it amuses and entertains me, as well as a handful of those around me, such as my children. They love to hear "Daddy's new song."
But crafting wood is another matter, hence my apprehention about my son's treehouse idea.
I got the clever idea of telling him I'd build him a treehouse when he pooped in the potty and abandoned diapers forever. We talked about a few times, but as the months of potty training wore on, the subject was dropped.
But then early last year, months and months later, it happened. He decided he'd had enough of the diapers and pooped on the potty.
And the first words out of his mouth?
"Now daddy gotta build me a treeshouse!"
So treehouse construction started in the fall. Little Curt and I picked out the perfect spot, and, without any kind of blueprint, I just started hammering boards. Sometimes, little Curt would join me, randomily hammering nails into wood. He's a good little hammerer.
My dad got to see the early stages of this, and he seemed pleased. Many of the suggestions he had were already taken care of.
"You might want to put a cross support there," he said.
"It's already there. Look under there," I replied.
"Excellent! Way to go! I'm proud of you," he said.
Now that he's gone, treehouse construction has taken on a whole new meaning. The treehouse must be sturdy. It must be impressive. It must be clever. It must look like a professional's work.
And I believe it's well on its way to being all that.
Last weekend, I finally got the floor in, aside from a few little places. Next, I'm going to put up railing and a staircase, and the children can play on it while I start adding the roof and assorted bells and whistles, perhaps a slide and few other creative ideas.
Some day soon, I'm going to sit atop my finished work, drink a beer and reflect as the excited children frolick around me.
And then I'll probably break down and cry.