Oobi was in the field, in his place where he makes dreams and wishes, with his books and pictures and pencils and paper. He’d sprawl himself on the ground, the pages open and he smell the trees and the green around him. Cannubi wouldn’t be allowed in his wishing place for it was only for Oobi, and besides Cannubi would always tramp through everything and then his pictures would get muddied.
“Cannubi stay!” Oobi would command. And there on the perimeter of the wishing space Cannubi would sit, or lay down, or just get up and run back out into the bushes.
Today Oobi was dreaming of making a tree house, he had pictures of ones that he had seen and drawn ideas of ones that he would like to have. He figured the low tree where he could climb over the pond would be the ideal place for the tree house to be, but he’d have to find wood and nails to put it together.
He tried to enlist the help of his friend Tyree Jefferson, but Tyree would have nothing to do with a tree house. He thought a tree house was something goofy to do; he’d rather stay home and watch the baseball game on television, than stand out in a field pounding nails into a bunch of wood. He even asked Jessica Handy, but she declined also. “Girls don’t build tree houses,” she confided to him, “they only play in them. And besides there’s too many stickers out there.”
So Oobi was left to dream himself. With nobody to help, no friends to recruit, Oobi decided to do it on his own. No matter how long it would take, and it could take a long time, he would do this dream. He was drawing a picture of his tree house when he saw a cricket perched on a branch. It’s antennae wiggled back in forth in silent communication with him. “Well hello there Mr. Cricket,” Oobi said politely. “How are you today?”
The cricket wiggled its antennae again as if to say. “Fine .”
“I’m drawing a tree house you know. It’s going to be quite grand, and if you’d like after I’m done you’re more than welcome to come inside and join me.”
The cricket walked down the branch as if to get a closer look. Then Oobi held out the back of his hand so the insect could climb on top and get a better view.
“See over here I’m going to build the look out tower. It will cover every area of the field. If anyone walks onto this field I’d be able to see them. And down here is the ladder, so that I can climb up and down, but still be in the center of everything. Each window will be wide enough so that if I need to escape I can jump out, and on top will be a special camouflaged cover so no one will know that I even have a tree house.”
The cricket walked across the drawn paper as if he were measuring out the right distances from point to point, then looked up at Oobi and wiggled his antennae at him.
“Why can’t you chirp like other crickets, Cricket?” Oobi’s face was so close to the insect that he was fearful that his nose might crush it. But the cricket wouldn’t chirp, it didn’t rub its legs to make noise or anything. It just wriggled its antennae back at Oobi. “Oh you probably have some sort of problem. I know how that feels.” He said. “You know I have to go see Mrs. Wesley when I have problems too. Who do you have to go see?”
But the cricket couldn’t answer; at least not in the language that Oobi would understand.
“How’s about I call you something other than Cricket,” said Oobi. “How’s about I call you…” And his voice trailed off in deep thought.
Oobi let that thought slide as he went back to his drawing, this time filling in some of the picture with color. And then when he had finished coloring the green of the top of his tree house, he looked down at the Cricket. “I know, I’ll call you Mr. Ink, because it looks like somebody dropped you into a bottle of ink.”
Mr. Ink liked that cause he ran back to the top of the branch and tittered his antennae with furious delight.
“What do you think of my picture now Mr. Ink?” Oobi stood and looked down at his picture. “I think it’s really looking good. Don’t you?”
Then Oobi looked and saw that it was getting close to dinner so he called for his dog and said goodbye to Mr. Ink. “Goodbye Mr. Ink.” And then he raced on home with his dog barking and his wheels churning.
The next day Oobi showed up at his wishing place with two pieces of wood and three nails. “That’s all I can carry,” he said to the place, hoping that Mr. Ink would show up. Then going to the hole in the tree where he kept his picture, Oobi took his drawing and worked some more on it.
Every day for two weeks Oobi would bring wood and nails for his tree house. And on the last day he brought his dad’s hammer and saw. In the clearing he had all his wood stacked in a pile, and off onto the side he had a pile of nails, and there on one side was Mr. Ink. “Hello Mr. Ink,” exclaimed Oobi, “I thought you had left. I bet you didn’t think I’d get this far on my project did you?” But Mr. Ink just scampered up and down the rails of wood and hopped off into the brush.
“You’re welcome to stay when I’m done Mr. Ink.” Oobi shouted after the cricket. Then he turned around and started building. The sounds of the hammer and the ‘zzzing’ of the saw echoed through the field for the next four days. And then Oobi was done. Oobi looked at the tree house and sighed. “ I need help,” he said out loud. Oobi got on his bicycle and went home.
Pannubi tasted some of the spaghetti sauce when Oobi asked for his help. “Dad,” he said without introduction, “I need your help.”
“What is it son?” Pannubi turned his head quickly, some of the sauce spilled to the ground.
And Oobi told his dad about his tree house in the field and how although he had done everything he thought was right. He thought that the tree house wouldn’t hold him on any of his guests very well.
“No problem son.” And then his dad bent over and wiped up the spilt sauce.
That weekend in the field Oobi and his dad worked on the tree house. They brought some more wood, and a canvas top, and when they were done, the house looked perfect, almost the way that Oobi had drawn it. Oobi showed his dad the picture and his dad looked down and smiled. “Well what are you going to do now Oobi?” Pannubi asked.
“I’m going to have a root beer inside of my tree house and read my favorite book.” Oobi said with a determined smile.
And later on that day, after lunch but before dinner, Oobi sat in his tree house sipping a not too cold but delicious root beer. The pages of his favorite book riffed from a breeze as he looked up and saw Mr. Ink on the ledge of one of his windows. “Hi Mr. Ink. What do you think?”
And Mr. Ink rubbed his legs and made a wonderful chirping noise as Oobi leaned back against one of the walls in his own tree house. “Ah,” said Oobi.