When I was a kid, about six or seven years old, my grandparents began building a house in the lot adjacent to the property my parents own. The land was surveyed and a foundation was built on the crest of a valley rim that overlooks a quiet creek that meanders through the gentle hills of Butler County, our quiet corner of Ohio. Bulldozers and other heavy machines were brought in to dig up the earth. Mountains of dirt rose into the sky as tons of cement were poured into the ground.
That summer I would walk across the fields from our home to the construction site. Day after day I would go to see the progress of the house. My grandfather and his brother began building upon the foundation, creating a home with their bare hands. Piece by piece it rose from the ground. Being just a child, I could not help but be captivated by the display of craftsmanship, the artisanal exhibition of a self-sufficient lifestyle now lost in the Digital Age.
As the truss skeleton of the house took shape, my innocent and ambitious young mind went to work. I wanted so much to be like my elders. So I began planning the construction of a tree house that would take its shape in a tree on the side of that valley overlooking the meandering creek. I chose a tree; it was small and, in some ways, a rather ugly tree. It had many imperfections, but I liked something about it, even if I couldn't say what it was. I went home and began drafting blueprints. I carefully considered what materials could be used in its construction: cardboard, toilet paper rolls, sticks, et cetera. In my mind's eye it was beautiful and, of course, fully furnished. I decided to keep my plans a secret until I knew it could be completed. My grandfather would be so proud, I just knew it. Together our homes would rest on the side of that hill.
Just days after my thoughts were overcome with the plans for my tree house, I ventured to the construction site. That day a bulldozer had been brought back to the site to level out the dirt that had been displaced by the foundation. I marveled at the immense strength of the machine that could literally shape the earth. It was more than a child could fathom. I suppose my fascination with the spectacle didn't go unnoticed to my grandfather. At some point, he asked the operator of the bulldozer if he would take a few moments to give his grandson a ride on the gigantic piece of machinery, and, at the same time, get rid of a certain tree on the side of the hill.
My grandfather helped me up the side of the mountain of steel and pneumatic pistons, where I took a seat next to a sweaty and hairy man that grinned obnoxiously.
"You wanna go for a ride?"
I shyly nodded that I did.
"Do you want to destroy something?" He grinned and chuckled.
Once again, I nodded that I did.
"Alright! Let's do it!"
I smiled, getting captured by his enthusiasm.
"So, let's get rid of that ugly tree over there." He pointed directly at the tree in which I had planned to build my tree house. My heart immediately sank. "Whaddya think of that?"
My smile disappeared. I shook my head, that I didn't want to destroy the tree. He laughed and grinned back at me.
"What do you mean you don't want to? It will be fun!"
I didn't know what to do; I couldn't say anything, I just gazed at my tree. And as I sat there in silence, the sweaty and hairy man fired up the bulldozer, revving its enormously powerful diesel engine, causing it to belch clouds of black smoke into the sky above. It began to lurch forward, its steel tracks clinking and squeaking below us. The earth seemed to shake at its treachery as the massive shovel neared, moment-by-moment, the trunk of the tree that I believed with all my heart was full of potential. I cast a desperate glance to my grandfather, who grinned and waved approvingly back at me. My eyes returned to the tree just as the shovel met its base. It released a pathetic pop, barely capable of protesting its own destruction. The remaining sound of its cracks were smothered by the mechanical churning of the unstoppable engine.
I sat there horrified as I witnessed my innocent dreams become a crumpled tangle of wood. My dreams of making my grandfather proud had come to naught. When the carnage was over, I slid down from the mountain of steel and set out for home, crossing the rolling fields in silent shock. When I reached home I went straight to my room and I tore my blueprints to bits and sat alone in despair for the rest of the day.
I am now twenty years older than I was that summer. And as I think back on that day, I can't do anything but smile. What seemed like the shattering of my world has now become a beautiful memory for me. Since that day I have been through much more traumatic things than that. And I know that one day I will be able to look back on those things, too, those things that have caused me so much pain and despair, and I will be able to smile at a simple revelation afforded only by hindsight: the world didn't end. We are forged by our experiences; choose, today, to find beauty in your pain; you just might find something worth cherishing.
