As a child, there was no where else I would have rather been than in my tree house. My brother and dad had built it when we lived in Plymouth. On a nice summer afternoon I would gather my toys and books and climb the creaky, brown, wooden ladder into my private oasis. My mom had stenciled colorful flowers on to the brown clapboard exterior, and although they had faded, the petals were still visible. Opening the purple door, I felt at home once again.
My tree house was a place for me to get away from the neighborhood kids and my brother and just be by myself. Inhaling, I would smell the familiar salty air from the ocean down the street. For hours I would sit in my tree house and play with dolls, or read books. Today, I am still an introverted person. Although I like being with others, I also enjoy time alone in my own space without the company of others. Some of my best, most memorable childhood times were spent in my tree house hidden in the woods.
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