We confer and contemplate. We envision and explain. Eventually we set to work. I imagine the background music to have a building tempo that mirrors our reach for the ceiling of our base-housing apartment. Starting in the living room, our blanket and pillow fort stretches from the living room along the length of the worn tan couch. It cuts the corner of the dining room and stretches past the light-filled kitchen. A fireplace is the central point in the three-bedroom abode and the fort stretches nicely around the brick structure.
The walls and supporting structure are the stiff couch cushions and the dining room chairs. Spaced evenly along the walls of the fort, these materials are magically transformed into the carefully conceived walls of our fort. Grandma’s patchwork quilts make a colorful roof. I don’t remember her but I cherish these blankets. I arrange them until I feel they are prefect.The front door of our third-floor apartment is able to open; but anyone over three feet tall will have to kneel and crawl through the fort in order to navigate our home. There is no room to do anything else.
My mother, a permissive and encouraging woman, loves us dearly. We are her life. She smiles, laughs and offers suggestions to problems that present themselves. The BEST FORT EVER takes form and lives! This Saturday will go down in the books as a glad success.
Just then, the phone rings. Mom reaches for the receiver and waves the music lower. Her best friend is coming over and we are going to have to dismantle our fort. My brothers and I stare at each other in disbelief. Was not this turncoat just suggesting a reinforcement for the entry way? NO! She will not order the demise of our masterpiece without us putting up a major stink! We rally our complaints and let out a litany of counter offers and negotiated stays.
The door opens and we all freeze. There is Priscilla Pops, the artist. She is quirky and odd. Ethel attracts the odd ones. Her short, curly, brown pixie cut matches her brown velvet eyes. The twinkle contained within those eyes holds intelligence and mischief. A hearty hello is punctuated by her dropping to all fours. Before any of us know it, she is crawling through the fort to make it to my mother’s kitchen table. No fort will get in her way of coffee and good conversation.
It’s days like this when I’m not so worried to grow up. When I see that Mrs. Pops still likes to play and hasn’t yet outgrown forts, I feel hope. It’s days like today that I feel that I will always enjoy Saturdays.