Dear Friends of the Good Old Days,
You would never have known that I had a father who was raised a carpenter and a lumberman. I did good to hammer a nail straight in my youth. Daddy always blamed it on my extreme left-handedness, a cruel twist of fate in an otherwise right-handed family. I should have known better when my brother Dennis suggested that I join him in building the world’s greatest treehouse.
We had little to use: a few short rough-cut one-by-fours and a few rusty, used nails. Dennis selected a tree of about a 5-inch diameter, drawing on his years of experience -- he was 12 and I was 7 -- while I blindly followed faithfully like a sheep for the slaughter.
"The first thing we gotta do is build steps up to where we'll put the treehouse," Dennis explained sagely. We cut boards about 15 inches long and nailed them to the tree with two nails per board as slats to climb to the lower branches. When Dennis had nailed the last one as high as he could reach, he instructed me to check out the "ladder." He would follow with more supplies to continue construction.
"You gotta go higher," he called from the ground as I reached the first branches big enough to climb on. I shinnied up until the breeze was pushing me back and forth in the skyward reaches of the skinny tree. "Now I'm comin' up!" my brother assured me.
The first couple of steps went fine until about the fourth one, which had been loosened by my climb, twisted under Dennis' greater weight. He slid down the trunk, collapsing our pathetic ladder as he went. Now I had the opportunity to discover why a kitten that climbs a tree isn't always able to get down.
"Don't worry!" Dennis shouted from safe terra firma, "Daddy'll be home soon!" So I clung onto those windblown branches, playing an unwilling, terrifying game of Skin the Cat for what seemed like an eternity. When Daddy arrived, he assessed the situation and then unceremoniously announced, "I can't come up there to get you, Kenny. You got yourself into this mess. Looks to me like you'll either have to climb down or fall down!"
I didn't have time to explain that it was my brother who got me into this mess. My grip was giving out. So, under Daddy's watchful eye, I maneuvered down to where the ill-conceived steps began and then slid into his powerful arms.
"I won't always be here to help, but if you just go back the way you came you'll usually be all right," Daddy explained.
So in cave exploring, tree climbing and life in general, whenever I've found myself in trouble, I have always tried to remember where I came from. My roots, my heritage and a good man I called Daddy back in the Good Old Days.
'Til next time,
Ken Tate, editor
Ken and Janice Tate are the editors of Good Old Days and Looking Back magazines. They were both born and raised in the Ozark Mountains; he in southern Missouri and she in northern Arkansas. They met and fell in love when Janice was a senior in high school and married when she was 18 years old.
They raised three children while Ken worked for newspapers and magazines-from the Ozarks to California to Texas. After the children were older, Janice was always at his side working on the publications he edited. Together, they have edited the Good Old Days line of magazines and books for over two decades. Through the magazines, books and his Looking Back e-newsletter, Ken has become one of the most popular nostalgic authors in North America. Ken hopes to still be editing the magazines when Good Old Days reaches its 50th anniversary in 2014.
Today, the Tates live on a 400-acre beef ranch that has been in their family for four generations. They still enjoy working outdoors on the farm, and Janice enjoys sewing and quilting. Headed toward their fifth decade of marriage, they say their biggest joy is spending time together, whether it's on the farm, in the garden, or working on one of their magazines or books.
Follow Us On ...