This yard. It is my yard and every memory of my childhood. I love this yard, as if it were my own church, my place of birth, or my personal sanctuary. Its smells, colors, and textures are all bound up in my childhood memories and I know everything about it. I suppose that is why I chose to get married in it. The cherry, apple, and pear trees and the blackberry bushes all know so much about me. I talked to them, swung off their branches, picked their fruit -- they have been faithful friends and trustworthy confidantes. On days that I didn't know the path I was supposed to take--on those crucial dark days of my life--they were all there, patiently observing and listening.
In them, I see a bit of my Grandpa, and I know that is the thing which draws me in. The yard was at its best when he was responsible for it, at least, that is how I remember it through my dreams of him. His presence in this yard was truly a miraculous part of my youth. There were so many wonderful evenings and lovely days. For a grown up, my Grandpa had an amazing concept of "fun." It was playful, childlike, and wholly engaging. When we roasted marshmallows and hot dogs over the fire in the back and he put on shadow puppet plays in the fire's light, I wonder if he knew how much he was shaping my love of the yard and of him. I wonder if he had any idea. I know that together we were both at our very best.
The yard is completely transformed this evening, and I can see all the people beginning to arrive and make their way to their seats. It feels as if it is going to be a magical night, and my stomach drops to my toes. It has been such an arduous process, putting this wedding together, but now, as I look out the tiny hallway window, I know that it has certainly been worth it. I realize that this is just one step in my life, among many, and for that reason, my future husband and I have decided that "low-key" but "bright" will be our aim this balmy July evening in 1999. I can see the pear tree gently swinging back and forth, and the weeping willow, which we are to be married under, is looking especially perky this evening. The small white arch that has been built especially for this occasion waits patiently and alone under the willow.
This yard. What a yard. With candles glowing and torches waiting to be lit, this yard is everything to me. My only wish is that Grandpa could be here to share it. My Mom, Grandma, and sister appreciate this moment, but not like I know Grandpa would have.
Where the seats are carefully placed in single rows, I begin to see two chaise lounges haphazardly placed half in the sun and half in the shade. It is 1979 and I am six years old. The sprinkler is going and I can feel the mist from its spray. It is a new model of sprinkler and my Grandpa is especially proud of it. The mechanism inside allows it to go from one side to the complete opposite side, and I am fascinated with its steady rise and fall, which I am able to time perfectly for the least amount of saturation. When it gets too hot, I am able to move my chaise lounge closer, so that the stream of water can fall directly on me. Throughout the lazy afternoon, my chief concern and only real job is maintaining an optimal temperature and adjusting the sprinkler accordingly.
Grandpa and I sit quietly, our chaise lounges adjacent to each other. He reads the newspaper, smokes his More Cigarettes, and I watch Snoopy, my Grandparent's dauschound, attempt to catch flies that continue to land on her protruding snout. After about an hour of this, I grow restless and decide to do summersaults. Of all my six-year-old talents, Grandpa is particularly fond of these, and I know I can draw his attention away from his newspaper. I run over to the pear tree and yell, "Hey Grandpa! Watch this!" I double my body up into a little ball and quickly do five summersaults over to his chaise lounge. He applauds me loudly and Snoopy barks. My head is pounding when I stand up, but I regain my balance and do five more back to the pear tree. He applauds again. Snoopy waddles over to me and begins licking my face, as I lay on the ground, panting from my exertion. I can hear the basement stairs creak and I know that Grandma is on her way down from the kitchen to bring us more lemonade.
"What kind of sandwiches do you want for lunch? Devilled Ham or Grilled Cheese with ketchup?" she asks us both. I look at Grandpa to see what he is going to have and he promptly answers, "Grilled Cheese."
"Me, too!" I run back to the pear tree and yell for Grandma to watch my summersault. She says they are very good and goes back up the stairs and into the kitchen.
About an hour later, Grandma comes back outside, balancing two T.V. trays -- one on each hand. She sets them on our laps and I am overwhelmed with choices. I could begin with the sandwich, but there is also a sliced dill pickle, a handful of Blue Bell potato chips and three ginger snaps laid out on the paper plate. Grandma says "Enjoy" as she leaves again. I look to Grandpa for guidance as he pulls one piece of bread away from the sticky cheese. I follow his lead. First, he dabs the bread in a little ketchup, which Grandma has carefully placed at the lip of our plates. He then layers half of the potato chips and half of the dill pickle slices onto the bread, finally returning the triangle of Wonder Bread to its original position. He quickly glances up to the kitchen window to see if Grandma has been watching, but the only thing visible is the top of her silver hair as she works over the kitchen sink, most likely preparing dinner. He is assured that she has not been watching, so he nods at me and we bite into our creations. But she knows--she always knows. The pickle, potato chip, cheese, ketchup sandwich is delicious and I savor every bite, knowing that I will not taste this again--at least, until tomorrow.
Looking out the window, this is what I think of as the guests begin to take shape again. There are so many of them, I become nauseous, longing for the solitude of Grandpa and I sitting in the yard, quietly enjoying a sandwich together.
