Well, It has been an interesting weekend around here. Mrs. Pauper is sick with the stomach bug that seems to be traveling around down here. This means that the Little Pauper and I were left to our own devices over the last two days. For the most part that means that we read books and worked on our home remodel. Today however, I went into the Little Pauper’s bedroom and to find her laying under a blanket which has been draped (as best she could) over a child’s armchair she has laid on its’ side. When I asked her what she was doing she said she was making a fort but she needed help with the roof. So I took her blanket and tucked one side into a high drawer in her chest of drawers (maybe not the safest plan upon reflection but it is what happened). This created a cascade of giggling to come out of her little body as she spent the next hour or so playing in this small fort.
As I went about the very adult things I “had” to do over that hour somewhere in the back of the mind belonging to the man close friends during my high school years referred to as “Grandpa” was the voice of the little boy from long ago who had become a master tent-fort builder in his own right. You see your body may look very different over the years but deep within every adult still dwells the child who knows just where to put the clothespins so they won’t slip and exactly how tight you can stretch a sheet and it still stay under the books you put on it to weigh it down. This child knows that it is the sacred obligation of every master tent-fort builder to pass on the earthshaking and important secret arts learned in the hours spent building during those magic years when the greatest concerns were, “will we run out of sheets?” and “how long will Mom put up with this?”. That child knows the lessons (and fun) earned through the bumps on the noggin when designs don’t quite work must be shared with those still little enough today to be enraptured with the worlds to be created from a few worn bed-sheets and clothespins. It was this little boy that began to clamor and like most little ones would not be stilled until he could share. So with a whisper from days long ago when the Pauper was much smaller and the world was much less complicated, the little boy began to call “Don’t you remember?” and it was then I knew adulthood would have to wait a bit.
This is how it came to be that the Little Pauper is sound asleep tonight in the cave like darkness of a massive tent-fort built around her bunk bed. Thus the unbroken chain passed down from one generation to the next through the ages is alive and well here in the heart of an old tent-fort maker and around the bed of the next tent-fort Frank Lloyd Wright.