There's an area in front of our townhouse that intriques me. It's about a 1000 square feet of open land of tall grass. It eerily familiar of a part of the acreage I grew up on. After a couple of years of imagining the unused space as a breeding ground for vicious snakes and gold ore deposits, my dad and I built a tree house above it. It was awesome. For a couple of years I used the treehouse to write down baseball statistics, plan my career as the next singer for Van Halen, and keep up with the latest Spiderman and Green Lantern comic books. The sheen wore off the place when I accidently stirred up a hornets nest (literally) and got stung 5 times. After that I kind of let the place go. Later on, I officially became a slumlord.
There isn't enough tree line support to put a treehouse on the land next to our home, but I have thought about digging a cave into the large bank. I wouldn't be doing this for my daughters. They have there own getaway places. The cave would be for me.
Aforementioned, my family consists of my wife, three daughters, aged 14, 7, and 6. I also hang out with my sister in law, 8 year old niece, mother in law, and several female friends. As much as I love these amazing women, there are times, where I just need to be with me and my testosterone. Hanging in a Georgia red clayed bank cave would be several levels of radical.
A grill, some red meat, a killer flame, a radio, and my visceral maleness. I'll wait for your laughter to die down.
What I remember the most about the treehouse days was the freedom of my own thoughts and my vivid imagination. I am not nostalgic for anything, just slightly envious of the open space, down time, and creative possibilities uninterrupted by squeals of Justin Bieber love, and who forgot to do what int he bathroom.
I'm not stupid, well I'm not drooling, knuckle dragging stupid. I know what would happen. I'd get the cave, spend a weekend in it, give in to my girls wanting to hang out and suddenly the cave has Princess posters and silly bands. That one weekend, though, would be epic. Grilled steaks, grunting, long, drawn out debates about college football playoff versus bowl system, and listing your favorite bands based on guitar player coolness.
I think I just figured out this blog post is a shallow, weak, shameless shout out to those lucky dudes who have so called "man-caves" to invite me over because of pity. Football season starts next week.
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