At some point during childhood, if one is lucky enough to have a treehouse, he or she reaches an age when hanging out in a tree just isn't enough. For me, that moment came quickly, which was a shame since my dad spent a lot of time making the thing. I opted to hail my electronics -- CD players, portable TVs, etc. -- up the wooden slats that were fastened to the tree's trunk. Some people, however -- and I knew a few kids who did this -- choose to turn their high place of floral refuge into clandestine getaways, dragging up spirits and booze and all other manner of legal (well, maybe not at their age) and possibly illegal substances. And, honestly, there's something comforting about the image (if you ignore the illegality of underage drinking and possibility of intoxicated, high-fall-related injury): sitting in a small, cozy, wooden box, surrounded by warm memories of summer days and comic books, drinking some version of warmth from a glass. That fuzzy feeling is captured pretty accurately by The Treehouse in East Nashville.
