< by Nate >

It just sat there in the drawer, taunting me.

A few weeks earlier, I had asked my dad if I could have a tree house.

He chuckled and replied, ” No.”

In the desk drawer sat a red Swiss Army jackknife. I wasn’t supposed to play with it. But I wanted a tree house. What was a fifth-grade boy to do?

Why, build it myself of course.

It was your typical NFL Sunday: Packers vs. Vikings. Both the Careys AND the Linsmeyers were coming over. Once everyone arrived, I put my plan into action.

After casually opening the drawer and sneaking out the jackknife, I headed out to the backyard.

I had the tree already picked, and it was a prime piece of tree house real estate. Step 1: Trim the useless branches.

Two small, feeble branches down … I was in a rhythm.

Then, I felt a hot burning in my left thumb, the one that was holding onto the third small, feeble branch.

I jumped down from the tree and ran into the house. When I reached the bathroom, I couldn’t hold back anymore: I flailed my left hand back and forth due to the pain. When I opened my eyes, there was blood … everywhere.

Then, the door opened. It was my aunt. She alerted my mother, who rushed in. They bandaged me up, and my dad took me to the hospital.

In the operating room everything was fine, until the numbing needle went right down the middle of my thumb. I’ve never squeezed my dad’s hand so hard. A couple of stitches later and we were on our way home.

Giving thumbs up has had a different feeling ever since … and I never got my tree house.