The years flew by so fast; we’re now called Grandma/Grandpa Angell. Grandkids are the best, but they can be a doggone handful.
So, Grandma got this wild hair. She said, “I’ll keep em busy. I’ll build a tree hut twelve feet high. I’ve got this, it’ll be easy.”
I hope I’m not being sexist but when Grandma said, “Tree hut.” I soon began to have some doubts right down to my mid gut.
This daunting Grandma project filled me with anxiety. So why are tree huts always built way up there in a tree?
I’d hear her hammer pounding. I was sure to stay away. And if she needed help, well then, I’d wait for her to say.
She built her hut in three long days. The worst days of my life. Now I breathed a little easy. I still had a living wife.
She couldn’t wait to show me, and her face was proud as punch. But I felt some hesitation, I just had a nagging hunch.
The tree hut floor was worn out scabs and not a single board. The handrail, rotten to the core, tied up with cable cord.
Not sure about the ladder rungs. They looked like twisted moss. I swear that doggone tree hut looked like Grandma’d hit the sauce.
So, to offer my assistance would require diplomacy. ‘Cuz if I crossed Dear Grandma, I’d be living in the tree.
One night while Grandma visited Relief Society, with drill and hammer in my hand I set out for the tree.
I braced up all the floor and then I tossed the rotten rail. I screwed in solid quaken asp. Dang sure they wouldn’t fail.
I nailed the ladder rungs to hold the fattest guy like me. I’d made some drastic changes. Hoped that Grandma would not see.
So, Grandma saw the work I’d done. I wondered, should I fear? But that night she hugged and thanked me as she nibbled on my ear.