There's a Spaceship in My Tree! by Robert West Page B

dreams, you see, clay would be dirt instead of bricks and buildings; oil would be nothing more than a smelly, black bog; and electricity, only a loud, jagged streak in the sky.”
    As if on cue, lightning flashed once more, illuminating the tree ship. “Billy Stoller built that tree house,” she said, peering thoughtfully at it. “He was thirteen years old, and the tree was one of the smaller ones in what was a vacant lot back then. His father wanted to use a bigger tree, not one twisted and broken. But that tree had been singled out by a falling star, and Billy Stoller would build his spaceship in no other.
    â€œYou see, Billy Stoller dreamed about traveling to the stars. Almost nobody dreamed of such things back then. But Billy took his dream and made a spaceship in a tree. I thought he was weird and laughed at him. I called him the worst possible names,” she added with a chuckle. “He might as well have had bug eyes and antennae, as far as I was concerned.
    â€œAnyway, he’d puff up red and mad but kept right at his dream. Ten years later, when he began teaching at the college, he built that house on the lot. And not too many years after that he helped Mr. Goddard build his first rockets.
    â€œYou have to be special to have a dream like that. You see, ordinary people — people like me,” she chuckled, “don’t understand that God can make some people different —special — for a reason.
    â€œPeople with big dreams have lived and played on this street ever since.” She walked up smack in front of Beamer and gave him a penetrating look. “Maybe your dream isn’t big enough. And maybe your wish was too small. Have you ever thought of that, young man?”
    With her looming above him like a thundercloud, Beamer couldn’t get his jaw to work.
    â€œYes,” she continued, turning back to the others, “when that meteor struck, it was like the finger of God touched the earth right here on Murphy Street. And something indescribable spread out from that spot like a ripple in a pond.”
    Her eyes took on a misty look. “I don’t know that you have to come to Murphy Street to get that touch. I suspect that there are other streets like this one and, for that matter, that God can touch every person if it’s in their hearts to accept that touch. But, as for Murphy Street, well, three Nobel Prize winners, four Pulitzer winners, a number of world-class artists and musicians, not to mention a pretty fair cartoonist, grew up here.”
    â€œAnd at least one big-time cobweb architect,” muttered Beamer.
    â€œAnd a lot of very good people who made a big difference one time or another in otherwise normal, everyday lives . . . not bad for a street one block long,” Ms. Parker continued.
    â€œWhen you see those cracks in the sidewalk down there . . .” She paused, and then continued. “Think about those children who came before you, who scraped their knees and climbed that tree just like you do now and made their dreams real.”
    She looked them over critically, and then made her way haltingly toward the doorway. “We shall see what you make of yours.” Then, without looking back, she lumbered out the door in a whisper of shifting silk.
    *   *   *   *   *
    The storm stopped as suddenly as it began. And, amazingly, Old Lady Parker did let them go home, dry and in neatly pressed clothes.
    Strangely enough, the icy snow had fallen on only one side of the park and a few blocks beyond. Murphy Street was right in the middle. The next day, Friday, newspapers were filled with stories about the freak storm. A couple of schools in the affected area, including the middle school, were closed as a result, so Beamer and the Star-Fighters got the day off to build snowmen. When they were through, though, they were surprised to see that their trio of snow figures looked like pudgy versions of Jared and his goons.
    It