The big tree wasn’t a tree. It was three trees, three trees on the back road, but it wasn’t really even that. It was adventure. Three sycamore trees, two close and one close but not as close as the other two. With a tree house. The big tree was a tree house built on one of three trees, but it was more than that, it was manhood. And we were all anxious to get there.

There are steps to being a grown up. Smoking, driving, some ritual of passage perhaps. There are rituals of religion, and there are those of culture, and the two often intersect and become one in the same. Some say you are not a man till your dad says you are, I don’t know about all that, but in Home Gardens you weren’t a man unless you climbed the big tree.

On the back road, which is Indiana street, there were those three trees. They seemed incredibly high. The white branches, and trunk, seemed to go up and up, making you dizzy if you looked long. The skinny green leaves reaching back down to the earth as if scared, and wanting mommy. And up, way up, the tree house. Really just four two by twelves nailed to some semi equal branches that shot out parallel to the ground. It really wasn’t much as far as tree houses go, no furniture or walls, no place to hide dirty magazines. But it was the place every boy in the neighborhood wanted to be. It was the magic place where boys became men.

I was a boy. But manhood was calling. I tried to climb up a few times and failed. I had no one to show me the way. You see it wasn’t your ordinary tree house situation. There were four wooden steps on the tree on the left. At the top of them there was a place to stand where the first big branch Y’d out. Standing at the Y, and holding on with your left hand, you had to lean out across the chasm that seems much larger when hanging between life and death, and grab hold of a small red piece of wood on the other tree. Then you had to swing from the y on one tree to the first y of the other tree by this little red handle. Once there it was only a few steps and branches to the tree house. It was this swing that made it. Once some younger kids added steps to the tree on the right so as to cheat the Gods of passage. It actually made it a much quicker and more efficient way to the top, but we tore them down immediately, and to manhood rights away from all who gained access that way.

The first time I tried to climb it I didn’t even know how to get across. After a few days hanging out I watched some of the men in the neighborhood make the swing, but when I tried I couldn’t even reach the red handle. I left dejected. But one cannot rush the aging process. I returned regularly, until I finally got hold of the handle. But try as I might I could not talk my body into the swing. I counted to three, called myself a pussy, and even scared myself with if you don’t go how will you get your upper body back onto the correct tree. Finally I pushed hard, and climbed down.

Then one day everything changed. I remember that day like it was yesterday, the day I became a man. It was early summer, middle of June. I ran around in shorts, with no shirt, red and blue vans tennis shoes. My blonde hair already bleached white in the sun, hung down over my shoulders, parted in the middle and layered. I walked down the back road with a singleness of purpose, a determined jaw set, and a confidant swagger. I would experience the rest of the summer not as a boy, but as a man of ten, almost eleven. The temperature was rising, as it was only 10:30 am, but was already hot, dry desert hot. The grass on the foothills had already turned brown, and the canal was dry. Two dragon flies flew by humping. And a few ground squirrels darted out of my path. I heard a dog bark as I walked by Windsong street, but almost in a dream, not real at all. I could almost hear, Clint Eastwood music whistling.

I reached the bottom of the sycamores, and looked up at the goal. The sun was still under the leaves and shown hard on my side, as I stood for a moment in reverent contemplation. I almost prayed to the gods of the tree, to welcome me into their arms. And then I grabbed the first rung. In no time I was up to the swing, sweat beading upon my forehead, I reached across and grabbed hold of old red, and without letting myself stall or think I swung, both hands clutching, and landed my right foot firmly upon the first branch. I was as good as there. I heard a hawk screech a welcome to the air, and I climbed up the rest of the way.

I laid on my back and smiled, I was all alone, no one there to appreciate my momentous achievement but the three trees themselves. I looked up through the leaves into the sky, and contemplated life, wondered of the future, and was satisfied. I stayed in the tree house for what must have been and hour and a half just enjoying my new lot in life. When I climbed down I ran into a bit of a surprise. The swing was scary as hell on the way up, but on the way back it was heart attack city. The handle was on the same tree as yourself, so your leap was without a steadying hand. You held on and just jumped, you aimed your foot at the lower branch and hoped it stuck. If you missed you were just hanging there. I was all this time thinking I had it nailed but the hardest part was not even close to being over. I tried to hold on and reach out with my left leg, didn’t reach. There was no way but to jump, or to cry for help. I took a deep breath and didn’t jump, then I counted to three and didn’t jump, and then I realized, I was now a man and men aren’t afraid of little things like heights and death. I jumped my foot hit perfect, I pushed off and down I climbed.

I came back with my friend later that day to show him I could do it, he tried and failed, but was very respectful of me. I left him down there waiting for me for a while, just to let him know the score. When I got to the swing on the way down, I didn’t hesitate, didn’t want to let on, but I was still scared. No problem. I enjoyed the tree house that summer, and the next but it wasn’t really the same as that first day. Becoming a man is much funner than actually being one.

Two years after my first successful climb I came back with my little brother. He was now ten, and ready for manhood. He wasn’t as daring as me, but I was there to guide and coach him so he would be fine. I explained the swing, showed him. Did it really slow so he could see it was really easy and not dangerous at all and then waited for him on the first step of the second tree. It took about one minute of coaching and ten minutes of ruthless teasing but he finally made the jump and was up in the tree. He had the biggest grin on his face, he was so happy that all my teasing about his expression when he was in mid swing didn’t faze him a bit. We sat there and talked. Talked about girls, Kiss albums, dad’s dirty magazines that we discovered. We smoked a cigarette. It was a real bonding experience. Then we left. I had him climb down first, he stalled. The swing back was too much for him. I teased, and coached, and even pushed a little. He started to cry. He wasn’t going. He just stood there crying and hugging the tree like some koala bear. I climbed over him and swung across, "see, easy" back and forth a few times. He wasn’t buying it.

Finally I had to climb down and run home to mom. Her brother was there visiting from Brooklyn, so he came back with me. My little brother was still hanging on for dear life. Uncle climbed up, swung across like he had climbed trees in Brooklyn all his life. He grabbed my brother in his left arm, believe me it took a while to get him to let go of the tree, but when he did he hugged uncle even harder. He grabbed the handle with his right hand and reached out with his left, he actually reached. Little brother stepped down onto the branch and climbed the rest of the way down.

He didn’t climb the tree for a year or two, but you can’t stop taxes, and aging. He was destined to be a man, and one day he made it. By that time I had realized you weren’t a man cause you climbed a tree, that was kids stuff. You had to get laid to be a man. And I thought the tree was scary.