On Treehouses

To understand my dad, you have to understand that there was never a time in his life that he needed much to feel content, satisfied, or comfortable. He spent his youth hitchhiking, sleeping in tents, and living in treehouses, and did that until he got married and had kids and a suburban life. That he circled back to his youth once his kids were grown is not a surprise. He spent the last six years of his life traveling around in a camper van- a van that was his full-time home. And for roughly twenty years, long before he had the van, he spent his free time in a loft he built in his storage unit. It is in this loft that I sit and write this today. It is in this loft that I feel his absence so strongly that I am not sure I will ever be whole again. It is where I can stand in one place and see everything he needed as a man, and everything he felt was of importance. It was, I’m sure, where he considered home long before he had his van.

Most of the lower portion of the storage unit is his work life. The paint, the tools. Drop cloths, ladders, bandsaws... If you didn’t pay attention to the details, it would look like anyone else’s workshop. My dad, though, is in the details. His clothes are in a homemade closet. Inside the closet hangs a medicine cabinet where he would shave his beard and buzz his head, letting the hair fall in tufts onto his shoes below. A problem for later, or not at all. There is an unplugged fridge without a front door that he used the top shelf as a wine rack for his collection of Grateful Dead wine, and a few other bottles that must’ve held some significance to him, even if I don’t know what it is. The bottom shelves are for clean, folded towels. His Jerry Garcia ties hang from the handle of the freezer door, which is still there. But everything had purpose according to Frank.

But upstairs, up in this loft, I see so many of the things that made my dad my dad. His creativity. His resourcefulness. The complexity of his simpleness. The faith in his craftsmanship- because to be honest, it looks like this loft is held up on a hope and a prayer. There’s the bed made out of recycled wood that is on door hinges, so just in case he needed to make more space, he could fold it up and out of the way. The old, used couch cushions he used as a mattress. He moved a television up here, with the Goodwill sticker still attached. His desk. His books and cards from his daughters. And I guess when he decided that he needed a place to put his remote control and glasses, he built a nightstand. He still has three sets of reading glasses on it. I’m guessing when he got tired of bumping his head on the beam that crosses the ceiling, he covered that with foam. It is here that he spent lazy afternoons and rainy days watching baseball or reading or playing chess or taking naps or practicing Spanish, just in case he ever moved to Costa Rica.

Even after he got his van, he still spent most of his time here. His storage unit turned live-work loft space. So hip, dad. This was his apartment; the van was just where he cooked and slept. Any time I called, I knew he would be one of four places: work, Kimberly’s, the van, or here, and there was the best chance he would be here. He wasn’t allowed to sleep here, so for a while he had an apartment, and then for a long time, he stayed with his best bud Bill. We call him, “Hey, Bill,” because every time my dad called him, or answered a call from him, he would say, “Hey, Bill.” So, he stayed at Hey Bills, unless Hey Bill’s girlfriend was in town, and then he’d get a hotel. Once he got the camper, he would just sleep in the van outside of the storage unit, which is why I am not in a particular hurry to empty it- not anymore than someone would be in a hurry to sell their parents’ home. This storage unit and the van are the equivalent to my dad’s house, and some things just take a long time.

It is also worth explaining the storage unit. It seems very unconventional to live out of a storage unit, and for many, it is. But this facility – most of the guys here have been here for ten, twenty years. This is where people run their businesses, partake in hobbies, or just come to socialize. And wouldn’t you know it, a Grateful Dead cover band just moved in. I don’t think my dad ever got to enjoy them, because I am certain I would have known about them sooner. He would have loved to have private concerts all the time. The weather is great, it’s all outdoors, and there is a community here. These guys were my dad’s friends and neighbors, and these “storage units” all serve a purpose other than just storing stuff. It is a place to get away, to keep busy, to have a friendly conversation or two. A home away from home. They all look out for each other, and they all help each other. And today, these guys are helping Frankie out one more time- by helping me.

I sit up here in my dad’s loft because today is the day we are dismantling it. In order to get his van inside so we can stop paying rent for that too, we need the overhead space. And it is breaking my heart. Every time I have to undo something my dad did, it breaks my heart. Something you should know: my dad wrote a book, and we titled it From The Treehouse Looking Out. I’m still editing it, but for Dad’s 76th birthday, I had it printed with a hardcover, and it is technically published, just not available for the public yet. But he got to see it in book form, which is something I am so proud of. And this loft, this was my dad’s last treehouse. It’s where he got away from the world, and watched it ebb and flow beneath him. It is crushing me to do this, so today, before we take it all down, I write from it to honor him. I write from it, my legs dangling off the edge, so I can create something from his space, before it transforms into something else. He would tell me, it’s just a loft. He would tell me, Its Zen to let it go. And maybe it is, Dad, but I feel like I’ve had to let go of so much recently. But every end to something is the beginning of something else, I know that for sure.

So maybe that is just my dad still teaching me lessons of impermanence, of change, of just being. It has been a few weeks since I last wrote, and being here makes me feel inspired. Maybe it’s his presence, maybe it’s just big feelings, or wanting to remember this moment. I want to apologize to him for taking it all down, knowing he would tell me that it was nothing to be sorry for. And not only that, thinking that it was really cool that it was so I could keep the camper safe. So, today, I write this essay from my dad’s treehouse, on the last day of its physical existence. This one last thing created from his magical, unconventional space. I like to think he’s here, looking over my shoulder, watching as the words land on the page letting me know its ok, and that we can build another one some other day.

Until then, Daddio.