I'm Getting Lost In My Backyard

Photo credit to my Dad.

I’m getting lost in my backyard.

It’s only about an acre in size, and it’s shaped like a piece of pie, rounded in the back and finally coming to a point that’s the concrete driveway. My white house sits smack dab in the center of that pie, like a generous helping of whipped cream. 

I walk this backyard in circles every day with my white headphones on, jamming to Owl City, The Script, Andrew Peterson, Billy Joel, and a million other artists at unholy volumes. 

I’m always surrounded by trees. Once, when I was in grade school, I counted them all. I think there ended up being over twenty, close to thirty. The lady who built the house in the good old ‘70s planted a windbreak of redbuds that begins in the front yard and slowly winds its way to the back. We’ve had to cut some down. Some have fallen down. But many still stand, defying the passing of time as only trees can.

My brothers have played so much football with their friends that the ground in front of the patio is flat, literally flat, and dead. Mom’s garden stands a little ways off, past the fire pit. It’s brown right now but she’ll turn it green soon. We almost always have a hammock hung on a few of our redbuds, and Dad likes to relax in it on summer afternoons. The hammock’s close to the playset our neighbors gifted us when we moved in. It’s too small for me now, but I still use it anyway. It always rocks when I swing on it. One of these days I’ll tip it over.

And I’m getting lost in my backyard.

I can hear the echoes of voices as I walk here. Cries of victory at a well-thrown pass and well-executed catch. The sound of high-fives. I can almost see the ghosts of my family running in front of me, laughing with me, bickering with me, loving me. 

I always stop my walk for a rest under George. The oak tree is the perfect shape and size. The swing hangs from his leafy boughs, and I’ll kick off my muck boots and swing for a while, still listening to music at that unholy volume. Our friends became engaged under this oak tree. Our Aunt planned for her wedding to be under it before the big storm came. It’s a strong tree. If George ever falls, I know I'll cry.

If I look up at the sliding back door, Judah has his face pressed to the glass, staring at me in his pajamas. I wave to him, grinning. He waves back. He’s almost four now. It’s crazy how fast the time goes.

How I love getting lost in this backyard.

Remember when I set the telescope up for the first time? Remember our first fire in the fire pit? Remember when that firework malfunctioned and shot my brother and cousins? They laughed so hard about that. Remember when we saw Elon Musk’s new satellite and thought we were seeing UFOs? Remember when we ran out at ten o’clock two years in a row, screaming at the top of our lungs and hugging each other because we won the Super Bowl?

I love this pie-shaped backyard.

There’s more magic here than in Middle-earth. There’s more magic here than in DisneyLand. There’s more magic here than any place else in the world.

And I love it.

Go sit in your backyard.

Then write about it.