Two months ago, my
pregnant wife and I moved over the hill to the San Fernando Valley. For the ten
years prior, we lived in apartments, five of those years together in West Los
Angeles. But similar to my wife’s belly, we both knew we had to expand. Moving
to the valley was not the ideal plan. It took the perfect house to rent to lure
us away from the Westside, where my wife had lived her entire life. Where we
could not find or afford the place that would be right for us. Maybe one with a
walk-in closet for her. A spacious kitchen for me. One with a backyard. After
existing in apartments for a decade, I had almost forgotten how glorious one
could be.
Let
me tell you about my backyard.
It is shaded by an
immense, majestic, and messy mimosa tree, whose long, sweeping branches
outstretch like the tentacles of Verne’s octopus, sheltering the grass below,
feeding hummingbirds, and releasing 600 flowers a day onto ground. To its right
rests an old wooden picnic table, blue at one point, presently faded like beach
wood. Now on the supreme teacher perk (a necessity not understood by those outside
of education), the summer vacation, I have delighted in the simple bliss of
eating breakfast and sipping coffee out at the table. Lining the south side of
the yard are many mature fruit trees, planted years ago by the owners.
Tangerines, oranges, peaches, plums, pears, apples, lemons, cherries,
grapefruit – it is an amazing thing to stroll up to a tree, grab a piece of
fruit, and like Eve in that garden, minus the whole being expelled from
paradise part, take a bite. Along the eastern edge is a built-in child’s pool.
Only two feet deep, but together with a lounge chair and a good book, it is the
perfect way to waste a few hours of a summer weekday while the rest of the
world is away working. My first attempt at a vegetable and herb garden resides
in the northern part of the yard. Its opening day roster includes heirloom
tomatoes, bell peppers, cucumbers, broccoli rabe, basil, parsley, and cilantro.
My wife said, and is right of course, that I planted too much too close
together. We shall see what happens.
As marvelous as
all this is, the real wonder that consumes me is my future in this backyard,
with my son who is set to make his grand entrance into this world in September.
As I am slowly drinking my morning coffee, I gaze across the yard following the
swooping paths of birds at play, the racing of squirrels fighting for the
fallen fruit, and I can see myself throwing a baseball to, or kicking a soccer
ball with, or just chasing around, this vision of who my son could be. I can't
picture what he will look like, although he does already have a name, but I do
envision this area to be the happy place of him at play, and for me to see the
wonderment of life, and its simple pleasures, through the eyes of a child
again. And in my head I am singing that Creedence Clearwater Revival song about
a fantastic circus at play around John Fogerty’s son as he watches him dance
around backyard. And all is right.
I reminisce back
to my earliest childhood backyard memories. They begin out in New York, on Long
Island. A backyard full of green and trees, family and barbecues, lightning
bugs and cicadas, the above-ground pool and the swing-set, and more room than
any kid would need to play with his Dad. Somehow, though, we used up every
square foot of that land. Me, my dad, my mom, my little brother. Then to the
next stage of childhood, when ages turn to double-digits, my family moved out
to Temecula, California. The Inland Empire, supposedly. Our house, like every
one around it, stood far too close to the next, and its backyard could not
compare to the one on Long Island. It began as dirt with a small concrete
patio, and remained that way until long after my parents divorced. Quiet.
Disregarded. Unlike the Long Island house, when it was time to move, we did not
do this together, as a family. First my dad left. Then I moved to Los Angeles.
Then my brother got his girlfriend pregnant. Later, my mom and sister finally
left, as well.
Until now, that
was the last backyard I could call, in any capacity, mine. I had left Temecula
and moved to Redondo Beach, where backyards are a luxury. But throughout my
twenties, a backyard never registered that high on my list of priorities. I
even thought at one point that I would live out my life in an apartment just
like Jerry on the show Seinfeld. Finally it set in, really much later than it
should have, that it’s not me who will be that that kid running around in this
grass chasing butterflies. I am going to be Dad now. I stand out in my
backyard, with my arms around my wife and her belly, the next world waiting in
her womb, as she enjoyed a popsicle straight from the ice cream man, and I know
that a backyard is for family.
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