Little Swing Set in the Foothills

Did you ever read Little House on the Prairie? It’s a classic. Written by Laura Ingalls Wilder, illustrated by Garth Williams, it is an autobiographical account of the Ingalls family move from Wisconsin to Kansas in the late 1800s. First published in 1935, it was made into a popular TV show not long after that. It provided the raw material required to make Michael Landon a household name before he tragically succumbed to brain cancer and was memorialized in a moving Boys II Men music video.
This is exactly the book I want to have with me if I am ever stranded on the Kansas prairie in 1870 with nothing more than a covered wagon, a bulldog, a breech loading rifle, 2 panes of glass wrapped in cloth, a barrel of molasses, a bag of corn meal, a team of oxen, and a wife and three daughters. Disguised as a book about a loving family working together to overcome obstacles, it is really a how-to guide on crossing the Missouri River, choosing the best homestead site, and constructing a log cabin with a “good oak door, solid and strong” (this involves lots of hewing and pegging and whittling).
As you read this book you come to pretty much hate Pa Ingalls. And it’s not because he illegally settles his family on Native American land (which he does) or because he snorts cocaine and gambles away the nest egg (which he doesn’t). You hate him because he is better than you. At everything. He always knows just exactly what to do and just exactly how to do it. The foundation he lays is perfectly level and square. His dog obeys him immediately. His roof doesn’t leak. He whistles when he is afraid. He never cheats or gets cheated. He hangs all of his clothes from one peg on the wall.
Showoff. So you made all of your furniture, Pa. Big wup. So did I. I shop at IKEA. Who cares if I used the hex wrench that came in the box instead of pegs and leather straps?
But what does Pa Ingalls have to do with anything, oh weekly columnist in one of my eight small town newspapers? you may be about to ask. Well, certain recent events in my life have got me thinking a lot about construction and tool use and what it means to be a man. Plus, I’m insecure.
Last week, delivered directly to my backyard by two men wearing those black Velcro back braces that don’t actually do anything for your back, were two large and heavy boxes filled with pre-cut, pre-drilled, pre-stained pieces of lumber, 42 baggies filled with all manner of nut, bolt, screw and washer, and a Tolstoy-sized owner’s manual and instruction booklet for the Durango Wooden Playcenter – 2007 (Model 1APO16-07). It’s a swing set.
There’s a fort and a slide and two ladders. There are monkey bars and three different kinds of swings… at least according to the bucolic, festive scene featuring a sturdy-looking swing set on the outside of the box. The structure that I have achieved varies somewhat from the one photographed.
I just spent 12 hours in my backyard wielding a tape measure, cordless drill, level, and rubber mallet (optional). I swear to you that I attached the Fort Rails (R) to the Uprights (C) and that they were even with the previously placed Floor Joists (G)… But then I suppose it is possible that I mistakenly used The Middle Floor Brace (T) or the Tarp Cross Brace (E). None of the pieces of wood are actually labeled with the numbers used to designate them. This may be why I have assembled a structure that my daughter has begun using to launch river rocks at the neighbors’ houses. I have built a trebuchet. And, I am still not quite sure where the wavy slide is supposed to go. I think I am going to nail it to the pepper tree.
So, fine, Pa Ingalls, you win. You are more of a man than I. You built a cabin on the prairie and I can’t even assemble a swing set in my backyard. But don’t you start talking smack, or I’ll let loose this boulder at your head.