Confesiones a un Árbol: Dorothy's Little House

DOROTHY’S LITTLE HOUSE

One day in 2005, my family and I took possession of our new home in the town of Rollinsford, New Hampshire. That day, while my wife, Terry, and my daughter, Dorothy, inspected the interior, I was examining the property’s backyard.

I had a project fixed in my mind back then. I had never been able to make it a reality, and that day I wondered if the opportunity had finally arrived.

The new house was located in a densely wooded area. And despite being the smallest house in the entire town, its backyard seemed ideal for bringing that long-cherished project to life.

The idea had been haunting my mind long before 2003, when my family and I moved to the United States and saw, in this country, beautiful structures dedicated to children in playgrounds.

It is even quite possible that the idea first emerged before the nineties, during the time I moved to England, where I would walk hand-in-hand with my daughter Dorothy through dreamlike forests with fairy houses built by hardworking hands, replicating a child's imagination.

And I do not rule out the possibility that the germ of the idea nested in my mind during my childhood years in Chimbote, Peru, when I would visit the magical Vivero Forestal, and my young soul would create and recreate stories around its cabins, its military fort, and “Tarzan’s Little House.”

Since I was a child, my father had made me an expert with hammers, nails, lumber, and saws. But it was only in 2006 that I felt ready to build the playhouse of my fantasies. I imagined it as the best gift for my daughter, Dorothy. And so, finally, I began to build the most beautiful playhouse in the town of Rollinsford.

I started it with the arrival of summer. I worked like a man possessed for several months, and I finished it by the following spring. I devoted every available minute of my weekends to this project. I labored in the early morning hours before going to work, and upon returning home until nightfall.

I drew blueprints, took measurements, studied basic construction principles, wind force, resistance to rain and snow, and the quality of materials for outdoor structures, and I borrowed tools from just about everyone.

On Saturday, July 29, with the help of a friend, I dug the holes for the six structural posts of the project. According to local municipal regulations, these had to have a minimum depth of four feet, taking into account “The Frost Line” (the depth of the earth's crust that hardens like a slab of ice and frozen soil during the winter).

Determining the exact location and height of the little house was a bit complicated. Near the back of my house runs the Salmon Falls River. It is always a privilege to be able to contemplate a river from one's own home, but I cannot enjoy this pleasure because there is a property between my house and the river that blocks my view.

However, I noticed that from one corner of my backyard, the river could be seen as long as the little house had a certain height. And so I did it: I placed it in that corner, with walls eight feet long and a total height of fourteen feet!

During the month of August, for five days, my nephew Brennan came from the city of Concord to help me build the basic structure of the project, consisting of a two-story frame with a gabled roof. Then, along the way, I added tile flooring, doors, windows, stairs, a balcony, insect screening, and even swings, a pulley system for lifting loads, and other additional features.

When the time came to define the “ownership” of the little house, the family reached the following agreement: the first floor would be for me, and the second floor for Dorothy. In my area, I have a hammock hanging that I brought from Peru. I enjoy this spot during the spring, summer, and autumn. During the winter, I use it as a shed.

The most crucial parts of the structure are reinforced with custom metal plates made in Peru by my brother Roger, who is an expert machinist. The day the delivery man brought my package to the house, he couldn't help his curiosity and asked me: “Tell me, sir, what’s in here that’s so heavy?” I played a joke on him and said: “I can assure you it’s not drugs from South America.” And he replied in good spirits: “Geez, that’s a shame; otherwise, you’d be a millionaire!”

Dorothy’s Little House is so tall it can easily be seen from afar. People walk by with their children and pass in front of my house. I am the only Latino immigrant in town, and it is not always easy to break the barrier that separates us from the locals, but sometimes they knock on my door so their children can play in Dorothy’s Little House. While the kids play, the adults ask me: “Is there a standard blueprint to build one like it?” I answer them: “The plans are in my head, and the technique is Made in Peru.”

As I write this story, Dorothy is playing with a friend in her little house. I pause to offer them a drink. I cross the living room, open the sliding door, walk across the deck, traverse the yard, and reach the foot of the house. Here, there are two ways to access the second floor: a conventional ladder and a “spiderweb” of ropes for the more daring.

I prefer the ladder. When I get to the top, Dorothy and her friend blush and interrupt their conversation. I offer them lemonade. What were they talking about?... I don’t ask. I was their age once. And with my friend Marco, we always chatted about the same thing: ... our first romantic daydreams.

New Hampshire, USA

May, 2012