A Pile Of Sticks

A couple weekends ago, my parents delivered a pile of old sticks to our house.  This is all that remains of the apple trees that shaded the house I lived in when I was a teenager: a pile of dirty, muddy, twisty sticks.

apple wood crib posts in the process of being stripped and cut to length

Since then, we’ve been slowly transforming this mass of dead trees into something rather beautiful and yet completely ordinary: a place for a tiny baby to call hits own.

We don’t really use a crib, not as a place where our babies sleep.  Our babies share the “big bed” with me and Robert for the first couple of years.  But we need a crib anyway.

Because sometimes, when you are the youngest member of a household, everything is too big, too loud, too rough, and too generally dangerous.  Sometimes your parents want to put you down so they can go take a shower or do something dangerous or dirty.  Sometimes you have inquisitive and entirely overwhelming older siblings.

Our crib is simply a dedicated space that belongs to the baby.  It’s a spot where we will be able to place that precious tiny human with a couple of interesting objects and a minimum of supervision for a while.

We had a crib that we used with Númenor and Ithilien.  But it never really felt like it was ours.  It was some cheap, commercially-produced thing that was only attractive before the fragile finish started to rub and scratch off, and was never stable.

father and small children stripping and measuring logs for crib

This crib will be our crib.  Hand-hewn.  Cut from my parents’ apple trees.  Rustic and unexpected, but also classic and clean.

me stripping bark off one of the logs that will become our crib

A former pile of sticks.