I wasn’t a normal girl, or maybe I was. I liked doing things that I thought boys liked to do. I liked building forts.

I remember my first fort. It was built, by design, to be cramped in a corner of our yard where the neighbors couldn’t see. It was wedged between the lilac bushes that surrounded the side and end closest to the front of our house. My corner. It was a dark area where the sun didn’t hit and so grass didn’t grow. It was far from Mom’s flower garden with the charming stone path in its center. Her area in the back of the yard could be seen by anyone who might peer up the driveway from the street and enjoy the glorious color of all the flowers.

My fort was not so pretty. I think that I must have scabbed the plywood and 2 x 4’s from a project Dad had made. I don’t remember, but one day I just had all the materials that I needed. As the youngest, I was darn good at gaining what I needed. I had an acute memory of almost everything owned by my siblings and parents and its location. I was the original recycler. Any (now useless) article could be put back to purpose and serve a real need!

Luckily, Dad’s workshop was used rarely. In fact, it probably wasn’t even used after he became aware that most things could be repaired with electrical tape. I knew instinctively that if I took a roll of that I would be found out. I just pilfered, or (should I say) selected those tools necessary to build a fort.

The location for the fort also had additional advantages for me. It was close to our back door. I knew that I wouldn’t starve or wither due to the heat. I could sneak in anytime and raid the fridge. Also, there was a break in the lilac hedge so that the neighbor boy could stealthily sneak out of his back door with supplies and run to our building site.

When finished the fort was maybe not a thing of beauty, but it was at least tall enough for us to stand up in. It was a rough-edged, simple square box with a lean-to quality, much like that of Pisa.