Tricked-out Treehouse

We were recently invited to a party at a friend’s gorgeous new Colonial-style home in Saratoga.

The whole spread was drool-worthy—there was a sprawling yard, a swank pool house almost bigger than my own casa and of course, a sparkling turquoise swimming pool.

I had just cracked open a Pacifico and hunkered down by the fire pit with the rest of the adults when my friend Rich said, “You’ve got to check out our new treehouse.”

“Sure,” I said, just to be polite. Thought bubble: A three-minute tour and I’ll be right back here sipping my beverage by the fire.

Rich led me over to the most amazing treehouse I'd ever seen. Nestled high in the branches of an 80-year-old live oak, I quickly realized the Swiss Family Robinson had nothing on this pad. The one-story treehouse was sanded and stained to perfection, tricked out with a dumb waiter to haul up sleeping bags, floor-to-ceiling plexiglass windows, a loft and electricity. This was luxury living for kids.

The occupants—four adorable towheaded sibs—Elyse, 8 Emme, 7, Hunter, 5 and Finn, 4—received the treehouse as a Christmas present. The masterpiece was created not by Santa Claus, but a man equally as talented when it comes to creating magical childhoods. His name is Mark Wallace of Chemeketa Park, and he is an accomplished musician, self-described “old hippie,” troubador and high-end treehouse artisan.

Before he begins building, Mark walks around the tree, looks at the specimen, climbs up and sits in its branches to formulate the parameters. Then he asks his clients: How high do you want it, how daring do you want to be? In this case, the answer was: very. “My clients sign a waiver excluding me from E.R. bills,” jokes Mark.

The style of this treehouse might be called “formal fanciful,” says Mark, who beautifully incorporated the branches into his design. “The tree really determines the blueprint.”

On the night of the party, I climbed up and found Elyse and Emme inside the treehouse along with their pals Ciara, 8, and Kari, 4. The girls were nice enough to welcome me in. We flopped on bean bag chairs and gave each other make-overs with sparkly blue eyeshadow.  We choreographed routines to Justin Beiber’s “Baby.” (“Oooooh, he’s so cute!” I squealed.) We banned the rambunctious boys—especially Hunter, who earlier that day had finger painted the treehouse windows with fuschia nail polish). We ate delicious butter mochi, and got our drink on. Well, not the girls—just me.

It was heaven. I never wanted to come down.

Two hours later I heard my husband’s voice float up. “Kim, you’ve been in there forever. It’s getting late.”

I went out on the deck. “But we haven’t had our tea party yet!” I whined.

“Come on. Time to go!”

“We still have to choreograph “One Less Lonely Girl.” It’s Justin’s biggest hit!”

“Seriously?”

“Just send my sleeping back up in the dumb waiter and go on home without me.”

“Five minute warning!”

“Oh, alright.”

I hope I get invited back soon. Maybe I'll even let Hunter give me a mani-pedi.

If you've got a hankering for a tricked-out treehouse, contact Mark Wallace at markadelic@earthlink.net.