A Treehouse, a little you-and-me house

George Carlin said our houses are nothing more than places to keep stuff while we go out and get more stuff. Why do we need so much stuff and so much space to hold it? I read about a guy who pledged to own only 100 items, including a toothbrush and a pencil. I’d like to try that, getting rid of one thing each time I bring a new thing into the house (other than Ben & Jerry’s, of course—but, then, that’s not hard to get rid of). I started thinking about space and possessions when Deek Diedricksen came to stay at Fern Forest with his wife Liz, four-year-old son Jonas (Deek calls him “Jones”), two-year-old daughter Angie (she calls Deek “Magic Dad”), and big black dog Orzo. I worried that a 90-square-foot treehouse would be a little snug for the family, especially since Deek is well over six-feet tall. But no. Deek loves small spaces. In fact, he builds them. Check out his website www.relaxshacks.com. You'll also see Deek's take on his weekend in the treehouse. ...

This morning I went to a homebrewing supply store to purchase some materials to make moonshine, purely for book research, of course. The shop was not large and was packed floor to ceiling with all sorts of accouterments for making brews of one kind or another. The smell inside was warm and earthy, caramel sweet, like a deep, mossy forest. As soon as I walked in, I forgot everything. Why hadn't I brought a recipe? Why hadn't I written down the things I needed, the mash fermenter, the boiler, the worm pipe, the slobber bucket (whatever that is), the hydrometer (what does that do?)? The guy behind the counter looked friendly enough. There were two customers ahead of us, one of which was in a concentrated monologue with the clerk about putting his boat in the water and sailing around the world. Was he planning to brew beer on the boat? Another guy came in, bought a bottle of something. "Credit or debit?" the clerk asked. "Whatever's easier for you," the guy ...

For a writer (which is what I sometimes call myself), there can be no better guest than another writer. Nicola came solo from Cape Cod for a retreat to work on her novel-in-progress. When she arrived in Lincoln, H and I were in Kentucky, where I had a week-long gig as guest author in the Spalding University BFA program. I taught two four-hour classes to advanced writing students, gave a morning presentation to fifty high school girls from local Catholic institutions, and had an hour-long radio interview. It was a full teaching schedule, but H and I managed to sneak in an afternoon trip to the Maker’s Mark distillery, thanks to my friend and former student Sylvia. If you haven’t tried bourbon flavored coffee, I suggest you order a bag pronto. Anyway, because we were gone, Nicola stayed at Firefly B&B just up the road and owned by our good friend and neighbor, Issy Link. Nicola is English and Issy is from Germany, and they got along famously, talking about “the old country,” as Issy...

After college Mike traveled the world with his sister. He’s a Boston boy but lived in Maine for a while. Then he made a smart move to Montreal. There he met Liane and fell hard. But he needed a job. He was trained as an accountant, and Liane found him a position with the Trapp Family Lodge in Stowe, close enough for them to meet on weekends either in Stowe or Montreal, where she works as an administrator in a child advocacy firm. When they came to Fern Forest for a night in the treehouse, they held hands while we got to know them, declining cheese and crackers and wine because “We don’t want to spoil our dinner,” Mike said. Lianne asked about the spa, what time it’s open. She didn’t want to disturb us. It’s open all night, I told her. Help yourselves. They had no requests or restrictions for breakfast. "We’ll eat anything," Lianne said. "Except mushrooms," Mike added, looking at Liane. Apparently she’s not keen on mushrooms. But I imagine she’d eat ...

“I’m Florence,” she told my husband. To me she said “Florencia. Like the city of Florence.” “Don’t you say Firenze in Italian?” I asked. She frowned. “No. It’s Florence. But I am Florencia.” “Aren’t you Italian?” I asked. “I am from Argentina,” she said, clearly annoyed. Her hair was dark and she had an exotic look, sort of like the Italian actor Vanessa Ferlito. Actually, more like Salma Hayek, the Spanish actor. Hayek makes more sense because Florencia declared, “I am Latin.” Coming to Fern Forest was Will’s idea. The trip was a surprise for Florencia’s 28th birthday. She came into the house and looked around, inspecting. Had he done well? The jury was still out. It was chilly, snow on the ground. Not at all like Buenos Aires. And certainly not like Manhattan, where Florencia works as a photographer’s assistant. I thought—wait until she sees the treehouse. Will had rented a car—at a premium because he’s under 25—and told her what to pack. A warm jacket. Yes, her Converse sneakers ...