From Homefront to Treehouse

Blast walls separate the buildings, their integrity compromised by peepholes

Growing up I had a tree-house. Old Man Jones was a helluva craftsman, but he was just as shrewd. So my tree-house had solid guard-rails around a platform, transparent walls to satisfy the ever-nurturing Momma Jones and her watchful eye. My only respite from Lil' bubba Jones came in the ladder of rope with rough cut oak rungs. Bubba hadn't developed the dexterity to navigate that when it went up. As he got there, us older boys took the rungs out and hung a single knotted strand of rope down over a sturdy branch.

  Nothing like what the Military-Industrial Complex of the 1940s left for the kids in an outlet town outside the Chicago metro area.