It takes the whole summer, our entire family laboring every spare moment, razing old walls and raising new ones. Right after Labor Day, I haughtily withdraw the kids from the public school system and open Greentree School, across the threshold from my kitchen. Greentree (the living room and two other remodeled rooms) is the first free school in the state of Ohio. The Emmons enroll Garth, and a Mothers' Morning Out friend enrolls Donny, her kindergartener, bringing the student body to a grand total of five.

        Every morning after Will leaves for work and before I wake the kids, I step from the kitchen into Greentree School. Gleeful, hugging myself, I meander through our old living room. Official exit signs glow over the exterior doors. The walls are hung with the children's artwork — mobiles, dream catchers, all kinds of paintings-without-margins! Five vividly decorated cubbyholes serve as the kids' lockers. Marveling at our creation, I can't help dancing over the bright sun-warmed linoleum of Greentree's library with its floor to ceiling shelves of books where Will's and my bedroom had been, through the little kids' room (a.k.a. Clayton's old bedroom), and on into my office, our ex-pantry. Goose bumps rise each time I pull open the brand new file cabinet drawer to gaze at the five crisp manila folders, each with a student's name on the tab, holding records forwarded to Greentree from the mighty public school system.

        It's not long before word arrives from the almighty Superintendent of Schools. Greentree is too small for accreditation; hence: “Court action imminent if children's absences continue . . . “
        The kids and I have just returned from a fieldtrip with time to spare before school is over for the day. I stuff the hateful missile into my pocket and read a storybook aloud to Regina and Donny, leaning against me like bookends. Their warm breath ruffles the hair on my arms. At our feet, Clayton and Garth listen in while erecting a fort from rough-cut ends of 2 X 4's donated by Will. Lizzie listens, too, as she works on her loom.
        When Donny's mom comes for him, half the kindergarten leaves for the day. We move into the kitchen to wait for Todd or Marsha. Home from school, I think crossing the threshold, tears welling at the thought of the threatening letter in my pocket.

                                6