Summertime in my backyard. There is no location more peaceful than this piece of land. Forts in the corners, near the trees; spying on neighbors from the top of the shed; sprinting back and forth with dog; playing catch and batting practice while waiting for the steaks to grill. Before laptops, before high-speed internet, before freedom from parents' "no TV during the day" rule (until Nick-at-Nite came on and we were allowed a few episodes of something vintage).
Here, my mom watches as the new pup Lucy explores the yard. I can identify. As a kid, the backyard was a blank canvas, a place where my brother and I could create our own little worlds of fantasy and unaccountability. I would go outside for hours, dragging along simply my imagination, maybe a dress, and a blanket. Every element to the yard came alive, from the birdbath (used to wash clothes) to the grove of pine trees (makeshift shelter from the outdoors, naturally). My favorite times were when I could invite my best friends over to get wrapped up in my own little world, as well. I still have such vivid memories of playing, so vivid, in fact, sometimes I confuse them with real memories of childhood. I guess it is hard to explain, but hey, it happens.
Always, I've been grateful for my parents, who simply let me go and be a nut in the solace of my own fenced-in yard. I wonder what they thought when they saw me drag item after item of kitchen-ware and vintage dresses out into the yard.
These days, when I return home, my backyard has the same effect on me: a place to lay, relax, listen to the birds near the creek, and let the humid-free Western air wash over me.
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