Dad had planted the trees

Dad had planted trees. He loves trees. That is why every different kind of tree that would grow strong in the unpredictable Chicago weather now stood on our front lawn. They looked like miniature toy soldiers standing in lines ready for a parade. In reality, those trees were probably as tall as I am. At least the ones that had survived the attacks from the small band of deer that roamed through our neighborhood.

Just out of sight, under the taller trees, you can barely hear the sounds of the creek. The water tripped over the rocks and fell towards the road until it goes under the bridge at the end of our drive.

The world looks different from on top of a roof. I could see the world from on top of our roof. Spring had already peaked and the summer heat was setting in over our little patch of land that was tucked so nicely into the back of the quiet neighborhood. We had done a lot of work since moving in years ago. The overgrown buckweed that once had crept its way up from the banks of the creek to the center of the front field now lay in an ashy heap.

Dad had planted the trees.

I remember when we first moved into this little house. It was the weekend of Good Friday. Mom didn’t cook Easter brunch that year, instead, we went to grandma’s house. It took two moving trucks, a full suburban, and a group of professional movers for the piano to get all of our things here. You would have thought we were moving across the country by the way my younger brothers complained about everything. We moved 10 minutes from our old house. My mom had told our friends and the movers not to take off their shoes when carrying in the boxes because “the carpet won’t be here very long” she told them.

Mom hated that carpet. It was understandable. We all decided that someone had picked up a paint sampler, like the ones they have at home renovation stores when someone is painting rooms in their house and taken all the shades of green putting them into our carpet. Then, after all those colors were there they splattered they sprayed ashy gray and black to finish it all off. That ugly old carpet just got removed yesterday. It lasted six years.

We are finally building the house my parents always wanted. By “we” I truly mean we. As in my mom, dad, my four brothers, and I. There are no contractors or renovation teams running around the house every morning. Sure, my grandpa came by a couple of weekends ago, and there have been some friends in and out of the missing front door. Dad says it is because he wants to save money but I know the truth. This is how it has always been. Dad likes to do things himself. He likes the excitement of seeing things come together. Dad likes to work with his hands, to mold and shape fine pieces of wood into walls.

He is old-fashioned that way. The mentality of “valuing things buy the amount of work you put into it not by the price tag” sort of thing was instilled in all of us when we were younger. That is why I am on a roof, not anyone's roof, our roof. The one that we made, together. It took work and lots of yelling, lifting, and a few moments of panic as we waited too long to put the tarp back over the exposed roof as storm clouds were beginning to collect themselves over our house.

I was able to be with dad though, so it was worth it.

When the whole project began I was finishing my final weeks of spring semester at college. The summer was so close, I was ready to be back in my bed. Back in my house, with my family, with no pressures of homework or school.

As I sat on the roof, I thought back to our first project that we had worked together on as a family. We had added on to our old house. I was two and my older sister and I shared the other bedroom in our two-story house. There were changes, mom was having another baby and I was going to be a big sister. I didn’t like that idea, and mom reminds me constantly. Our house was too small. So dad drew up the plans, and he began to build us a house.

I can remember, mainly from stories and the family photo albums that are boxed away, the times that mom would allow my sister and me to run through the open walls, and play tag with the cat. It was a good time. A happy time. The uncles and grandpas came and slowly our little house grew. So did our family. I had a little brother.

Dad let me help. I held his hammer. He let me watch. I had to sit quietly and be patient as the sounds of tools rang through the air. Sawdust and nails flew through the air. I got to wear dad’s hat. I was daddy’s little girl.

Now, I got to swing the hammer through the air as it struck true and the nail was swallowed up by the wood. I’m now the one to cut the plywood and suggest how we are going to secure the beams for the roofline. I smile when I think about how proud my dad is of all of his little workers. He always loves to work with his hands.

Dad had instilled in us the love of working with our hands. To watch the pieces of wood be shaped and molded into something strong and sturdy. I think that is why he likes trees. They too fight their own way in the world. They too work to grow and reach for new heights, changing with the season and forever growing stronger. He taught us that too.

Dad had planted the trees.