Historic/Hysterics Home Tour

This weekend our neighborhood is having a home tour. Everyone is all abustle tidying up for the flocks of folks who come to see the old houses. Our hope is that the tour will favorably impress so that those who seek to live in an historic neighborhood will think of us when the time to buy comes.

To that end, I have been spending a few hours each day trimming and picking and generally trying to improve the outward appearance of our home. I have been up on high ladders bringing down large branches, I have been down on my knees pulling stubborn weeds...and I have shelled out a few dollars to get my boys to do some of the work for me. I stacked all my large branches neatly in the back yard, out of sight from passersby, and I bagged up all the other refuse and stacked it behind the fence. Looking good.

So.

First thing my son thought when he saw the pile of branches was that it was his lucky day! Mommy may have forbidden the making of a tree house in the tree, but (!!!) she never said anything about not turning the playground equipment into a tree house by adding branches!

And so the dragging began. The dead branches went up all around the "fort" until one could climb up the ladder, sit inside, and absolutely believe it was the inside of a genu-wine tree house.

I actually thought it was clever and, despite not looking fantastic, would not significantly affect property values in the near vicinity.

And then.

Just as I am feeling the weary, aching triumph of a job almost done, I ventured outside to take out the trash. And. . . Uh. Wait just a minute. Where is the "tree" house?

The branches were not in sight. Had my wonderful children chopped them up and stacked them beside the house for next year's winter fires? Oh, the darlings. They are so clever.

But no....

I found them outside the fence, in the direct line of the pathway for the neighborhood tour, stacked loosely to a gravity-defying 5 feet high.

I staggered. I swooned. "WHA?" I cried.

Colin explained, "Well, Spencer needed some camoflage, so we moved 'em out there."

So, dear home tourists...please watch for 6-year-old snipers this weekend. If you see any camoflage on your path, steer clear.

I think I need a pill.