She Turns Two Fallen Cedars into a Sky-High Sanctuary
Cassandra Parker cuts down two shade-casting cedars, then decides to build a 97–square-foot treehouse from their bones. She races a nine-day promise, a tight budget, and her own fear of doing it wrong—because her kids and her garden can’t wait.
She Climbs Above the Noise
A tiny house crowns a stump, cedar siding silvering in the salt air on British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast. Waves murmur below; a rooftop deck peeks over treetops like a lookout.
Inside, it’s calm and cedar-scented, a loft bed under a long fan, wood grain running like topographic lines. Cassandra steps in and the city inside her quiets.
She Faces the Stumps and a Deadline
Two cedars come down so her garden can breathe. She hates the loss—until a friend says the trunks are too beautiful to burn.
Her tiny-house sketches, the ones she’s doodled for years between teaching and parenting, suddenly feel urgent. A friend shows the drawings to his uncles in Quebec. They answer in French: fly us out, feed us, buy beer—we’ll build it in nine days.
She measures obsessively, rechecks the cuts, labels every piece. When the men arrive, they start at sunrise and end in the dark, laughing and nailing in a language she doesn’t speak but fully understands.
She Puts a Year of Hands on Every Edge
The frame stands in nine days, but the soul takes a year. Cassandra sands shelves until her fingers remember every knot. She works after bedtime, after class, after coaching—slow, exact, tender.
She keeps the cedar naked, a warm ribbon wrapping the little house. She refuses to cover its story with paint.
Underfoot, the stump holds everything. Grooves cut deep in the heartwood cradle the structure; three more posts steady the corners. It’s not perched. It’s planted.
Even the climb up is a narrative: cedar rounds sliced from the same tree, set into heavy concrete, an armrest of driftwood found after a storm—curved, salt-sanded, stubborn.
She Hunts for Beauty That Already Exists
One new thing: the front door. She paints it the color of the sea because peace needs a threshold.
The kitchenette is small enough to cup with both hands: toaster oven, tiny fridge, a French press in place of a machine. The counter wears tile that someone tried to throw away.
In the bathroom, an old dresser lives a second life with a sink cut into its chest, the wood sealed but still breathing. Nothing matches; everything belongs.
The shower fits one person and a long exhale. Above it, the cedar beams stay exposed—honest structure, not a secret.
A barn door slides shut with a story: salvaged from the Aquaman set, it turns movie fiction into morning routine. She grins every time it clicks.
She Hides Function in the Steps
The staircase pulls double duty: blankets behind one panel, games and books behind another, a hamper tucked where a void might have been. Nothing wastes space; nothing feels crammed.
The top tread keeps its live edge, a soft curve under the palm, a reminder that this is a treehouse, not a trick.
She Sleeps With the Trees
Upstairs, a queen bed slots into a cedar cradle. Morning light brushes the headboard; the ocean winks between branches. Quiet lives here.
Seven-and-a-half-foot church windows, rescued from a West Vancouver teardown, rise like hymns. Their arches pour daylight onto wood that once rooted in this soil.
She Opens It to Strangers, and to Love
From the garden, she looks up and still can’t believe it stands. A home made from two losses. A year of sanding and saying yes. A place for her kids to pick breakfast and for strangers to breathe again.
