A Treehouse, a little you-and-me house

After a gratifying win, the Utica Club hockey team posed for a picture at this weekend’s CanAm tournament in Lake Placid, the goalie front row center. The mood was celebratory, teammates slapping the goalie’s shoulders. “I’ve never felt such man love,” the goalie said, and the left wing leaned over and tried to kiss his cheek. “Awww,” the goalie said and shook his head. I was one of a handful of wives accompanying husbands to the tournament and witnessed men over forty transforming into the boys they were when their moms ferried them to the ice rink decades past. They were silly and playful. The videographer got shots of them flexing aging biceps in the locker room, pulling in puffy stomachs and puffing out sagging chests. On e guy wore fake teeth that made him look as if he’d taken a few pucks to the mouth. “Hockey is a dangerous sport,” he said, “and you need protection.” He held up two packets of condoms. Twenty-two teams played 27 games of hockey in three days using all three r...

I’ve never thought of our treehouse as a subversive retreat, but when Erica and Michael stopped at U.S. Customs on their way from Montreal and the officer asked, “Where are you staying in the U.S.?” Erica responded, “In a treehouse in Vermont.” “Pull over,” the officer said. Fortunately, Erica had a printout of the Airbed and Breakfast site that lists Fern Forest Treehouse, and after studying the sheet, the officer waved them through. This Canadian couple was looking for anything but excitement. They simply wanted a quiet place to relax, and that’s what we provided. When they arrived in the afternoon, we offered to make them reservations for dinner in Bristol, but they’d brought snacks and planned to hang out. Fine with us. H and I went for a late dinner at the Bobcat to give them some solitude, and when we returned they were snug in the treehouse. It was 11:00 a.m. when they rose for breakfast on Saturday. While they grazed over scones and granola, we ...

Even though they came from just up the road in Burlington, it took us a while to get to know Hannah and Brad when they visited Fern Forest for a night in the treehouse. Brad is the most understated fellow I’ve ever met. He’s compact and fit, an athlete who took up ice hockey this year, even though he’d never played before. But he plays roller hockey and soccer and football, and they keep him in shape. He’s cautious until he gets to know you, not giving away anything about himself. H is like that, too. Maybe it comes from being a competitor—don’t give the opponent any advantage; keep him guessing. “What kind of work do you do?” I asked. “Retail,” he said. I could’ve let it go at that, but I’m a writer, and I’m always looking for a story. “What store?” I said. He hesitated before answering, “K-Mart.” “Oh,” I said, “Martha Stewart!” “Her contract ran out,” he said. “She’s with Macy’s now.” “Too bad,” I said. My financial adviser just sold my Macy’s stock because it’s heading downhi...

If you check the post for December, you’ll see the weekend Colleen and Jay visited Fern Forest was the coldest of the winter. On their second visit in March, they had no snow to contend with, and the mud stayed out from under their wheels as they drove down from Brooklyn. We would have been thrilled to see them even if Colleen had not unearthed a bottle of Basil Hayden’s bourbon from her bag as she walked through the door that Friday night. H and I had eaten, but we broke out leftover Boboli and cheese and crackers, and we all dipped into the bourbon. It was a promising start to the weekend. On Saturday Colleen came from the treehouse early because Jay had intended to get a head start on a day at the mountain. She thought he’d be right along, and we gave her coffee while we waited for him. We sat and talked about the Garden & Gun magazine she brought. After twenty minutes, still no Jay. I looked out the back, saw him at the door inside the tree...

Heather and David visited Fern Forest Treehouse for two nights from Worcester, MA, where David is on spring break from medical school. Heather has been on hiatus from her work on organic farms but moves into The Kitchen Garden farmhouse in Sunderland this spring to start planting. I found one of Heather's postings on an organic gardening site that said, "I love garbage!" She's an expert on compost and those adorable and fragile little worms that help break down kitchen waste. It’s always interesting to make a meal for people who don’t eat anything that has a face, which includes no dairy. So we fed them lots of fruit and soygurt and offered warm vegan muffins and scones from Stone Soup in Burlington. The second morning they feasted on gluten-free and dairy-free pancakes with sweet Vermont maple syrup. There were no complaints. They had parked their car at the edge of the woods, and when they tried to back out on Saturday, the wheels on the driver’s side were stuck in ...

H floats down the ice, juggling the black biscuit, weaving in and out of defensemen. He shoulders his way around the last hulk for a showdown with the goalie. The goalie’s face is hidden by a white mask that makes him seem eerie and ominous, and his giant pads give him a leviathan look. H knows how to get the puck past him—draw him to the right and surprise him. When the goalie lowers his glove to the ice, H can lift the puck—go upstairs, they say—and shoot it over his shoulder. He did it many times when he played high school and college hockey. Deeking the goaling, fooling him. It’s a sweet feeling to score, to raise the stick in victory, to be the hero. He’s been there. And he’s over it. In his peripheral vision he sees one of his teammates on his left. He’s gotten through the defense, too, and slaps his stick on the ice. H looks through the white mask into the goalie’s eyes. He’s hunkered down, waiting for H to strike. H sets his mouth and pulls back his stick, kee...

When Cindy said she'd like to replace the Harvard poster in the treehouse with a Yale poster, I'm sure she was kidding. When it comes to the treehouse, we don’t have anything against Yalies, even though, by association with H, I’m all Harvard. Anyway, Fern Forest is neutral territory. Cindy is an art conservator at the Yale University Art Gallery, tediously repairing ancient and priceless works from paintings to mosaics. Rich is a photographer for the gallery. Both are artists in their own rights, but they brought a technical aesthetic to Fern Forest. They drove straight up from New Haven, taking our advice to go over the Appalachian Gap to get to Lincoln, dropped their bags, and rode another hour to Burlington for shopping and dinner. Rich had never been to Burlington and thought it was something he ought to do, but he seemed happy to get back to the bucolic isolation of Fern Forest. It was fairly late when H and I heard them giggling in the spa, the jets massaging their...