This is a photo of my backyard, taken this morning. It should give you a pretty good idea of why I love my home. On this beautiful spring day, the dogwood is in bloom, and below it is a small patch of iris, along with the wild outcroppings bursting forth from and around an old tree trunk. I am now sitting out on my back porch, watching the birds visiting the next-door neighbor’s bird feeders, flying back and forth between trees and bushes and the feeders. The local cardinal pair is creating a diversion for the neighborhood stray cat who enjoys hunting where the birds congregate. Failing at his attempt with birds, the cat heads to the tangle of bushes at the back of my yard to try his luck with chipmunks and field mice.
Routines
It has been cold this spring, forcing me to have my coffee in bed more mornings than not. Another reason I love my home: my bedroom is a cheerful oasis, painted in a lovely yellow chiffon color with a happily patterned blue and white bed cover. I wake up with the sun in my eyes and a smile on my face. But, I digress. Lately, it has been warm enough (48 degrees or more) to put on my robe and fuzzy slippers, grab my journal and coffee, and make my way out to the porch to greet the day.
This will be where you will find me, weather permitting, in the first light of morning, when the Northern Mockingbird is shouting to wake the rest of the bird world. He sits atop the dogwood, pontificating, as if he and he alone is responsible for ensuring we all awake from our slumber. It’s amusing and annoying all at once. This is the same bird who will make a point of crapping on the lawn chairs – often while looking straight at you – as if he knows it will piss you off. There is more than one Mockingbird in the vicinity. But the morning crier is a special bird and specific to my yard and my tree (and chairs.)
The town
Another reason I love my home: my little town. Each morning, I put on my exercise gear and my running shoes, and out the front door I go. I first pass the ice cream shop, the post office, the sushi place, the diner and the pizzeria, the hair salon and the dentist’s office. Then past the historical homes and the lake at the center of town. Past the school, town hall, firehouse, the churches, and through the park.
Depending on the time I finally haul my ass out the door determines if I am greeted at every corner by a crossing guard. Most mornings, I see them all. The first is the father of one of my children’s classmates, who bikes to his post in shorts unless it is below twenty degrees. The next is an older gent with a bushy white mustache, stationed at the Historical Society offices by the old grist mill sign. At the end of town is another fellow, eager to chat when I am stopped by traffic lights. And then on my return, on the opposite side of the street, is my favorite elderly gentleman, who at 88 is even smiling when it is raining and cold.
I look forward to the simple greetings of the morning with the crossing guards, the kid walkers and the dog walkers. I suspect that is why I have moved my journaling to before walking – so my timing is in sync with kids being escorted to school and hence, crossing guards. My work day doesn’t start properly without this little ritual.
The neighborhood
In the winter months, especially during pandemic winter, we stay inside. My historical (read: in need of some repair and refreshing) home is a cozy retreat when it’s freezing, and it is a good thing. Now that the weather is finally cooperating – a little – and the buzz of the lawnmowers and weed-whackers compete with the birdsong, people are emerging from hiding. There will be backyard barbeques and a Memorial Day parade and fireworks for Independence Day. More reasons I love my home.
As I type, the clock in the old school tower just chimed the hour. In 30 seconds, the bells of the Presbyterian Church on the other end of town will peal. On a quiet day, I can hear them from the back porch reverie. Today is not one of those days – between the lawnmowers and the street traffic, any distant sounds, like the church bells or the commuter train going through the next town, are imperceptible.
The backyard
As evening closes in, and the clouds roll across the once bright blue sky, I listen to the cardinals chatting to one another through the hedge, while I admire my recently cropped yard. It’s time to think about dinner and winding down from the day, making mental plans for the days ahead. Soon, the sun won’t set until well after 8 pm, allowing for even more back porch time. The back of the house serendipitously faces west, allowing for views of evening sunsets through the trees.
It’s a quirky old house, with plenty of repairs waiting to be attended to, and no one floor level with the next and stairs in odd places. But the back porch and the little yard, complete with the birds and the bunnies, are the redeeming features of this little house, in this little town, that I love.
Makes me want to move in. Written like a painting. Love it!