One thing my sister Grace and I never lacked was imagination. This was exemplified by our obsession with the little wooded area around the swampy slough near our driveway. We spent days making a home out of the pine trees and wild rose bushes. Once the blueprints in our mind were made reality, the house was complete with two bedrooms that included walk-in closets, a sunroom overlooking the slough, and a kitchen. 

Our carpentry skills were tested as we manufactured old sheets of plywood and 2” x 4”’s into beds, tables, and shelves to furnish the living space. The kitchen table was a slab of excess countertop from a home remodel, and a rejected sink from the same project leaned unsteadily between two trees. Most of our baking took place on a board set precariously across two short stumps; the underside was the oven, and the top was a counter. We hung our mother’s discarded pots, pans, and ladles on crooked nails hammered in a large pine tree. One of the pans was covered in holes because it had been used for our brother’s target practice, but we weren’t picky. The fridge was perhaps the least functioning part of the home. Nothing more than a miniscule hole in the dirt, the appliance caused most of its contents to be simply placed around its entrance. 

Once we beat down paths between areas of the house, movement without thorns scratching us or having to duck under branches became a fairly easy task. However, crossing the four foot deep slough to get from one bedroom to another was a struggle. To solve this we rummaged up a few 2” x 8”’s that could serve as bridges. Not incredibly sturdy, after a couple years they completely snapped in two, but at the time they were extremely convenient.

Our seriousness about the fort was not only in its architecture but also in how we played while in it. Instead of simply making up recipes as we went, Grace and I documented the ingredients to dozens of appetizers, entrees, and desserts. We were sure to keep our unstable shelves stocked with sawdust to act as flour, ground up foam for coconut, and anything else we could find to be spices or snacks. In and around our fridge, loads of rotting wood played the part of chicken. Tastefully colored rocks were equated to moose meat, and a combination of moss and leaves acted as lettuce. If ever an occasion called for any sort of beverage, an unlimited source of water lay two steps away. With the addition of one ingredient or another, a cup of slough water could be transformed into a variety of drinks. 

The game wasn’t all about the food. Despite really being only a couple of conveniently placed pine trees, our walk-in closets had to be stocked with something. Our mom wasn’t foolish enough to let us take any decent looking clothes outside so this part of the game was, like the rest, fantasy. We would feign the delicate removal of something from a dress rack. Donning the invisible gowns with awe, we then described to each other the exact type of fabric we wore, the shape of the sleeves, color of the lace, and length of the skirt. Even the change into a nightgown had to be shared, and the color of each imaginary ribbon in our hair was enthused over. 

Looking as lovely as we perceived ourselves to be, we couldn’t be expected to stay in our small waterside abode for too long. Rounding up our horses, which were actually bikes, we made our way down the gravel driveway that we conceptualized to be a cobblestone street. Shops littered the side of the road. We passed by a restaurant, fabric store, hairdresser, jeweler, shoe store, and dress shop. All of the shops were in reality acres of forest that, to anyone but Grace and me, had little differentiation from any other wooded area. Nevertheless, we stopped at each shop and commented on the type of gem in a necklace that was really a tree branch or the unfair price of a certain blue thread that we visualized in place of a pine cone.

At the end of the stretch sat our favorite of all the stores, the masquerade shop. I don't know the origin of our fascination with masquerade balls, but it was a guarantee that every dance we attended would require a mask. Preferably it would be one with a feather. This masquerade shop was a place we visited only before special balls at the finest venues. As with any other purchase, we described our masks to one another in intricate detail, and we made sure they matched our previously purchased ballgowns and slippers. The balls themselves took place on the gooseneck hay trailer parked in the field. They featured sipping imaginary punch, dancing with invisible strangers, and, more often than not, one of us falling in love.

The masquerade balls were often the grand finale of our slough fort sessions. When they ended, we made our way inside, leaving our imaginary personas to be forgotten -- that is, until we made our way out to the slough again and imagined alternate realities where our hair could be raven black, our eyes any color of the rainbow, and our bikes appaloosa ponies that we rode wherever we wished. 

Close to thirteen years have passed since Grace and I started playing by the slough. The area is now littered with the remains of our kitchen utensils and birch bark flower vases. Tables have fallen over and so have trees. Our plywood beds have rotted into their surroundings. New growth makes the shops along the road unrecognizable at times. Still, I smile when I drive past the masquerade shop, and as we stack bales on the gooseneck hay trailer, I think back to the times Grace and I giggled and waltzed across the same boards in our pretend puffed sleeves.