In the chapter "Memory Place," Barbara Kingsolver, author of High Tide In Tucson, discusses the importance of loving the land and preservation. For Kingsolver, it's Horse Lick Creek, but I think that we each have our own memory places and would do anything to protect them. My memory place would have to be the "secret" clubhouse in my backyard. Even though it was clearly visible from two streets away, I called it secret because it was all mine and served as my second home. I guess it was all part of that little kid imagination. I used to sneak out at night and sit out on the creaking wood and look up at the stars with oodles of wonder. My dad and I would go out and he'd hold me under a blanket and we'd listen to the heavy drops of rain fall on the tarp roof. My sister and I, decked out in our feather boas, would sneak our Barbie tent and hike it up to watch "The Little Mermaid" on our clunky television set. I used to help my dear old Grandpa up the metal bars saying, "Come on, you can do it!" and giggled as I watched him struggle. I thought he was being funny. I used to climb up and look out like I owned the world. My sister and I would play house and I would be the mom, and her my daughter. I would sit in my oversized lawn chair and wait until half past eight o'clock and listen to the thunderous roar of the train coming into town. Once in a while, I would climb up and find a new decoration and run into the house to give my daddy a big hug. I would sit on the metal slide and wait for my skin to turn red from the heat and laugh because it felt "weird." I would pick flowers and hang them in baskets. I was so proud of my work. That was when I was six. Before I realized how small I really am in the universe. I'm like one of the hundreds of millions of stars. Before I realized the pain in my dad's eyes. As for he could see I was growing and knew that I would never be able to fit in his lap again. Before I realized that my sister and I were growing apart and that I should cherish every moment I have with her. Because I will soon leave her behind to figure things out on her own. Before I realized that my dying Grandfather wasn't being funny. I just didn't know what Arthritis was and how much pain he was really in. Before I realized that I didn't own the world and never would. I'd just be afraid of it. Before I realized that I was mocking the ideal family. That my real family would soon fall apart like a shattered glass that could never be put back together. Before I realized that I would later want to jump on that train just to get out of this town. I could go anywhere. Before I realized that I would never hug my dad with such love and admiration that I did before. Which causes him to ache even more. Before I realized what real pain felt like. That it was more than just a red mark on the back of my leg. Before I realized to appreciate the beauty in little things. Because one day I wouldn't find beauty in anything, including myself. Now I just look across the street at my old treehouse and all I see is chipped paint, crooked wood, and torn green tarp. But I can still picture it as it was when I was younger. Newly built, so strong and beautiful. That's what I was like when I was younger. But today, I ask myself, have I come to be what I see across the street? Broken, torn, ugly, and worn down. It seems as if my treehouse, the one that I once loved so dearly, has deteriorated with me. For that reason, it's my memory place.
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