When we bought the house in Woodbridge, Virginia, it needed a lot of work. Actually, the real estate agent, a fine gentleman named Sterling, was sure we wouldn’t like the house. It was a wreck. The kitchen was just junk. The basement had like six appliances just tossed in there and the basement toilet was on its side. The living room floor was as wavy as an ocean with twisted floor joists, and the windows had lots of cigarette tar that took forever to remove. The back yard was a jungle and took weeks to clear out, but also required landscaping terraces and drainage as it would flood the basement with every rain. Laura and I worked like crazy to remodel the entire house. Her dad, Woody, helped a ton – especially with the three 5-gallon buckets of Sheetrock mud to repair all the holes and seams.
Once the interior was livable, I shifted my focus to the back yard where I built a six layer terrace leading down to the basement entrance, a French drain before the entrance, and – the pinnacle – a tree house for the boys. A large tree had been trimmed back and died in the back corner, so Garrett and Evan helped me (as much as they could) build a deck and railings in the treehouse and then a “secret hatch” in the floor to get up into the treehouse.
The back yard became a paradise for these boys that lived being outdoors. We even put in a 12 foot above-ground pool. Garrett practically lived out there. He and his friend from across the street, Isaiah Brown, were constantly exploring new mischief they could get into.
The terraces were made of landscaping timbers with 12 inch spikes locking them together. I had left the materials, including the metal spikes. I had told Garrett they were not a toy and he shouldn’t play with them. He got it. I thought.
But I also knew how mischievous I was as a kid, and should have put them away.
Then I was inside taking a break from the heat and enjoying my favorite ham and cheese sandwich when Evan came running in saying Garrett got a metal spike in his face. His simple but terrifying description sank in my gut. I ran out and found him sitting in the ground with Isaiah standing next to him. I had envisioned Garrett losing an eye, but his little hands were covering his mouth. He didn’t want to let me move his hands to check on it. He would just say through his interlocked fingers “It’s bleeding.”
Once I convinced him I wouldn’t touch it but I needed to check, he slowly unlocked his fingers and let me see.
Him and Isaiah had been throwing the spikes at a tree like throwing knives, and one had hit just right and bounced back to puncture Garrett’s upper lip. The wound was only about half an inch long but he was already swelling and had a fat lip. There was very little blood, but it was already on his hand so it had him freaked out. I sent Isaiah home and brought Garrett in to put an ice pack on his mouth. Good thing Garrett wasn’t as accident prone as his dad.
Then I put the spikes away, feeling a mix of guilt for having allowed it, frustration for my little boy not obeying, and gratitude it wasn’t any worse than it looked. He still has a small scar on his lip to this day. And a story to go with it.