The "Known World"
The very first house that I can remember living in was located in Bluff Park just off of I-65 and Alford Avenue. What stands out most prominently in my memory is the yard. I guess now is as good a time as any to describe The Yard. The backyard, to be precise. The front yard was about as foreign to me as the rest of the territory that filled the world beyond the chainlink fence that encompassed the "known world," that is, the backyard. When we were not in the bathtub, we could usually be found rolling around in the luxurious carpets of thick green Saint Augustine grass beneath the sprawling pines, rooting around in the monkey grass that bordered EVERYTHING, or peddling our Big wheels around on the huge brick patio.
That patio stood out like a cameo. It was thirty-feet in diameter and it floated like an island in the centre of the yard and was connected to the back steps of the house by an isthmus of solidly mortared bricks that formed a wide walkway. At the foot of the back steps, this walkway was joined by another that led to the gate in the northwest corner of the yard. The bricks in the patio were lain unevenly causing the patio to ripple the way that the surface of a catfish pond ripples on a breezy day. Here and there, the crevices between the bricks were stuffed with moss, or splayed around the mouths of chipmunk burrows. In the mornings, a haphazard assembly of oaks, hickories, and dogwoods draped their shadows over the patio like a giant sheet of black lace. These trees, that lived on the eastern side of the patio, blanketed the bricks with their leaves in the Fall. And the dogwoods dropped their clusters of berries that reminded me, for some odd reason, of stars and I would often point these berry clusters out, insisting that they had fallen from the sky during the night.
One of these dogwoods originated from a tangled mass of roots that was wedged between the patio and one of the rusted iron poles that supported an old moss-covered awning. This awning was crammed uncomfortably between the trunks of the bigger trees and a pair of brick steps led from the patio down to the bare earth beneath the awning. It was there that Dad kept his lawn-mower. And to the north of the awning stood a veritable Goliath of an oak tree. From this tree our magnificent rope swing hung. It was a simple swing, made from a single length of manilla rope that Dad had fastened to one of the tree's upper boughs. The manilla rope was as thick as my leg, so thick that I couldn't close my hands around it and had to hug it instead. It went up up up into the shady confines of the leafy canopy, so high that if you tried to see where it was tied off, you would fall over backwards. There was a round wooden seat that Dad had made and the rope went through a hole in the middle before forming a knot that was as big as my head. Below the the knot, the unraveled strands of rope hung and swept the dusty ground like a broom. The ground was dusty there because it was bare where our feet had vied for traction. Mom had done her part too. She had painted the seat a dark green color and over the green, she had painted a glossy pair of cherries. Why cherries? I don't know. It made no difference because when Dad pushed you on that swing, cherries were the last thing on your mind. He would push you so high that you could see the leaves rotting on top of the awning and you could see all of the world that stretched beyond the fence.
The other end of the awning bordered what could be described as a monument to Mom's shortcomings as a gardener. It was a scraggly tangle of grass that every now and then sported a lethargic tomato plant or an emaciated stalk of corn. Mom always yelled at us when we ventured there, always worried that we'd kill the poor plant before she did.
In back of the awning, on the side farthest from the patio, there was a cinderblock retaining wall that spanned the width of the yard, and running parallel to the back fence. The remianing strip of yard between this wall and the back fence was hidden beneath waist-high grass. We never ventured there because everyone knew that big big snakes lived there. But we wasted plenty of time standing atop the retainig wall and heaving big rocks into the grass in hopes of provoking the big snakes to come out into the open where we could see them. We nearly gave up this obsession after Mom caught us shoving Dad's lawn-mower over the retaining wall.
The part of the yard west of the patio, the part that flanked the walkway on either side, was covered with rich green Saint Augustine. And here and there, the tallest pines you've ever seen stretched to the sky with arching boughs that cradled the clouds. I was convinced that these were the trees that had inspired Rock-A-Bye Baby. Just north of the walkway was the infamous barbecue pit where the carpenter ant munched on my right nut. Let's not forget the little flower beds all bordered by monkey grass. These sat off of the north side of the patio as well. Though Mom planted the bulbs upside down, the tulips never ceased to grow.
That was The Yard. In the Summer, we danced there barefoot and picnicked and napped under the pines on a big quilt that Mom spread on the grass. And in the Winter, we waddled around back there with drippy red noses or stood in a circle facing each other with arms akimbo, trying to act like big people. Regardless of the season, we enjoyed ourselves immensely.
That patio stood out like a cameo. It was thirty-feet in diameter and it floated like an island in the centre of the yard and was connected to the back steps of the house by an isthmus of solidly mortared bricks that formed a wide walkway. At the foot of the back steps, this walkway was joined by another that led to the gate in the northwest corner of the yard. The bricks in the patio were lain unevenly causing the patio to ripple the way that the surface of a catfish pond ripples on a breezy day. Here and there, the crevices between the bricks were stuffed with moss, or splayed around the mouths of chipmunk burrows. In the mornings, a haphazard assembly of oaks, hickories, and dogwoods draped their shadows over the patio like a giant sheet of black lace. These trees, that lived on the eastern side of the patio, blanketed the bricks with their leaves in the Fall. And the dogwoods dropped their clusters of berries that reminded me, for some odd reason, of stars and I would often point these berry clusters out, insisting that they had fallen from the sky during the night.
One of these dogwoods originated from a tangled mass of roots that was wedged between the patio and one of the rusted iron poles that supported an old moss-covered awning. This awning was crammed uncomfortably between the trunks of the bigger trees and a pair of brick steps led from the patio down to the bare earth beneath the awning. It was there that Dad kept his lawn-mower. And to the north of the awning stood a veritable Goliath of an oak tree. From this tree our magnificent rope swing hung. It was a simple swing, made from a single length of manilla rope that Dad had fastened to one of the tree's upper boughs. The manilla rope was as thick as my leg, so thick that I couldn't close my hands around it and had to hug it instead. It went up up up into the shady confines of the leafy canopy, so high that if you tried to see where it was tied off, you would fall over backwards. There was a round wooden seat that Dad had made and the rope went through a hole in the middle before forming a knot that was as big as my head. Below the the knot, the unraveled strands of rope hung and swept the dusty ground like a broom. The ground was dusty there because it was bare where our feet had vied for traction. Mom had done her part too. She had painted the seat a dark green color and over the green, she had painted a glossy pair of cherries. Why cherries? I don't know. It made no difference because when Dad pushed you on that swing, cherries were the last thing on your mind. He would push you so high that you could see the leaves rotting on top of the awning and you could see all of the world that stretched beyond the fence.
The other end of the awning bordered what could be described as a monument to Mom's shortcomings as a gardener. It was a scraggly tangle of grass that every now and then sported a lethargic tomato plant or an emaciated stalk of corn. Mom always yelled at us when we ventured there, always worried that we'd kill the poor plant before she did.
In back of the awning, on the side farthest from the patio, there was a cinderblock retaining wall that spanned the width of the yard, and running parallel to the back fence. The remianing strip of yard between this wall and the back fence was hidden beneath waist-high grass. We never ventured there because everyone knew that big big snakes lived there. But we wasted plenty of time standing atop the retainig wall and heaving big rocks into the grass in hopes of provoking the big snakes to come out into the open where we could see them. We nearly gave up this obsession after Mom caught us shoving Dad's lawn-mower over the retaining wall.
The part of the yard west of the patio, the part that flanked the walkway on either side, was covered with rich green Saint Augustine. And here and there, the tallest pines you've ever seen stretched to the sky with arching boughs that cradled the clouds. I was convinced that these were the trees that had inspired Rock-A-Bye Baby. Just north of the walkway was the infamous barbecue pit where the carpenter ant munched on my right nut. Let's not forget the little flower beds all bordered by monkey grass. These sat off of the north side of the patio as well. Though Mom planted the bulbs upside down, the tulips never ceased to grow.
That was The Yard. In the Summer, we danced there barefoot and picnicked and napped under the pines on a big quilt that Mom spread on the grass. And in the Winter, we waddled around back there with drippy red noses or stood in a circle facing each other with arms akimbo, trying to act like big people. Regardless of the season, we enjoyed ourselves immensely.
posted by Reckless at 10:29 AM
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