When I was beginning fourth grade, my family moved from Dayton, Ohio, to a rural part of the state: Beavercreek.

            I wasn’t sad to move because the only girls on the street humiliated me over and over, all because I was fat and poor. They’d invite me over, then insisted on playing Wheelbarrow. It’s an embarrassing game, in which one player walks on hands while the other two players lift the feet up high, creating a human wheelbarrow. It’s not like the intent was to gather things, but rather to split the legs apart, showing the crotch.

            I was always the wheelbarrow, even after complaining, whining, really, that it was someone else’s turn. Whenever I crossed the street to play, I made sure my bottom wasn’t damp or stained or smelly. It wasn’t until this had gone on for several weeks that it finally dawned on me that those two girls weren’t looking for a friend, but someone to ridicule.

            When my parents announced that we were moving, I was excited to get away from those awful girls. My hope was that I’d make new friends. It also meant starting over in a new school, which I looked forward to.

            In my current class, I was the dumbest kid. From the time I enrolled in the Catholic Elementary, I was well behind in first grade. I fell further behind in second. Before the principal would let me return for third grade, I had to have my eyes examined.

            No surprise: I couldn’t see long distance, which meant I’d never read even a single word the teacher had written on the board. And close-up I dealt with a severe astigmatism that made the rows of letters buckle and slant. Once I had glasses, things became somewhat easier, but I was so far behind that there was little hope of catching up.

            The new house meant a new school.

            The girls in that class, at a different Catholic school, were just as mean as in my previous school. Not one befriended me. Not one invited me for birthday parties. I was pretty lonely, and spent playground time either walking the perimeter of the blacktopped area, or assigning myself to lunchtime tutoring. I preferred the tutoring as that nun was kind and helpful.

            Just as things were looking up for me, my brother and I got permission to explore the woods behind our house.

            We spent countless hours deep in the forest, imagining that we were explorers. We’d climb trees, well, my brother would climb pretty high whereas I’d get one foot off the ground.

            By this time I’d taught myself to read, and since my brother, who was one year older, needed the library to research, I got to go along and check out books.

            I refused the picture books as they were for babies. I wanted to read about what I then called Indians, to learn where they lived, what they ate, how they dressed, anything and everything.

It was that interest that introduced me to the idea of a treehouse.

I decided to build one in a spindly tree at the end of our yard.

My brother and I had spotted lots of downed wood on the forest, but we never carted any of it home. I wasn’t allowed in there by myself, so I raided my dad’s supply of boards and nails he kept in the garage.

The nails went into the pockets of my shorts, along with the hammer. I balanced the boards on my right shoulder, held in place with both hands.

I spread the boards out in front of the tree, arranged from smallest to longest.

With one hand on the tree, I lifted my right leg as high as it could comfortably go. That was where the first step would go. Using a nail, I scratched a mark in the bark.

I placed the first board on top of the mark and held it in place with my hip. I had put the nail in my mouth, so now I rested it toward the center of the board. I took the hammer out of my pocket, and while leaning against the tree, pressing the board against its bark, I struck the nail.

It seemed to pierce the board. I hit it again and again, the nail moving a tiny bit each time.

And then it bent over. I was angry, but convinced myself that it had actually gone in far enough. I added a second nail, not too far from the first.

The step was a bit wobbly, but in my little girl’s mind, it would do.

I added a second board, just above the first. It too, had bent nails.

Then with a huge stretch, I added a third, equally wobbly, but I shrugged it off.

The time had come to begin the climb. Holding a longer board in one hand, nails and the hammer in my pocket, I reached up to the second board, raised my right foot, and pulled.

I got it up on the first step, quite pleased with myself.

I pulled hard enough to get my left foot off the ground, but just as I was suspended in air, the first board broke. I fell.

And as I feel, the sharp edge of a bent nail sliced down my left arm, leaving a bright red streak. Blood seeped through, at first random spots of red. Quickly it turned into a small stream.

I knew my parents would be angry, so I couldn’t let either of them see what had happened. I wrapped my arm in my shirt and ran for the house.

My mother had a rule that my brother and I had to stay in one place all morning long, changing locations only when it was time for lunch.

My brother had gone to the garage where he loved tinkering with a transistor radio that he had built, so I didn’t have to worry about him.

My mom had eagle eyes and the hearing of a bat. And when angry, as ferocious as a lion.

She terrified me.

That meant I had to get inside without letting her know. I opened the screen door slowly carefully to keep it from squeaking. Once inside, I crept down the hall, avoiding the known noisy spots.

Somehow I made it to the bathroom without disturbing my mom. I knew how to care for an injury, so I got down the mercurochrome and the box of bandages. I cleaned the cut with soap, covered it with the mercurochrome and then a slew of bandages.

I snuck down the hall and back outside. Using the hammer, I removed all the nails, stacked up the boards and carried everything back to the garage, all the while worrying not about a potential infection, but how hard of a spanking I would receive.

Fortunately my brother was out riding his bike, so he didn’t see me sneak in. It also meant he couldn’t tattle on me, either.

Somehow, I got away with it.

The cut didn’t get infected, no one said anything about why I wore long-sleeved blouses in the summer, and my dad never counted boards.

For many years I wore a scar on my right arm. In time it faded away, but the memory of what I had tried to do never left me.