As I continue occasional excursions into my office closet to pick through "the archives," as I call it, I've come across various family souvenirs and heirlooms—including my own—that get my attention. Here is one.
When I was a junior and senior at North High School, I took art classes. Each week, we had an assignment to create a piece of art at home and bring it in on Monday. The image above is one of my homework creations, a painting of my Willowick, Ohio backyard.
Our home was on a cul-de-sac and had a wedge-shaped backyard. The yard backed up to properties on E. 293rd street. Those were narrow, deep properties, and the homes were situated close to the street side, far away from our property. When we first moved to Blissfield Drive, I didn’t even realize that there were homes on the other side of "the woods" beyond my backyard fence.
The woods were a magical place in my childhood. When the trees were fully leafed out each summer, the canopy was green, lush, and thick, and one could well imagine that all manner of creatures lived there. We certainly had a variety of birds—cardinals, blue jays, robins, starlings, and sparrows. Chipmunks and squirrels also made the woods their home.
Our yard had three large oaks, one in each of the two back corners of the yard, and one that sat on the property line to the yard's south side. Our yard was only fenced on two sides, and there was an opening beyond one of the oaks into the woods, where a path had been beaten. Mom forbade us to go into the woods, but that did not stop my always-curious brothers. Rule-follower me was too chicken to go into the woods until I was much older.
I loved the solitude that the woods and our large trees offered in our yard. It was shady in the summer, so was a good place to drag a lawn chair to sit and escape the summer sun. And situated at the "dead end of the street" it was sheltered from the traffic and neighborhood noise.
The backyard also had a swing set where I would swing as high as possible. If I jumped, could I sail right over the fence into the woods? Or even complete a 360-degree-up-and-over-the-swing-set-top-rail to end up back where I started?
As our kitchen window faced the backyard, the yard became my companion as I washed or dried dishes. I would spy squirrels chasing each other, or tightrope-walking the power line that ran parallel to the back fence. Sometime rabbits would scamper by, or a skittering chipmunk would flash across my view.
My love of nature began in that backyard. I still recall seeing a single scarlet tanager, with its black wings set against a vivid red body, perched in a tree one year. I had never seen one before or since, and sometimes I wonder if I imagined it. Another time, when I was brave enough to venture into the woods with my older brother Tim, he showed me a Jack in the Pulpit that grew there. I had never seen such an amazing and exotic-looking plant. I loved to watch the changing seasons, from the buds of the trees in the spring to the kaleidoscope of leaf colors each fall. And the sound of the wind whistling, talking, and sighing through the swaying treetops never disappointed.
We had a picnic table in the backyard, and I have vivid memories of lying on my back on the table after dark to look up at the stars peeping out from beyond the leafy trees. It was from the yard that I was first able to spy the only constellation I can reliably identify: the Big Dipper. No matter where I have lived since, if I can find the Big Dipper in the sky, I can send myself right back home.
The backyard taught me to observe, and it is a lesson I carry with me. It shows itself in my impulse to take photos of trees, flowers, butterflies, leaves, sunrises, and sunsets. I still try to identify the birds I see around my Texas home, like I identified that scarlet tanager. I used to listen to podcasts or music when walking our dog, Angel. But now I find that I don't like tuning out the sounds around me, and would rather listen to the wind's music, or the horses whinnying, or the birds calling to one another across the road. I'd rather watch how the seasons change the world around me, comforting in its predictability.
I'm sure at the time I painted my backyard, I chose that project in desperation after procrastinating all weekend to get my assignment done. But now, I think I chose it because somehow the backyard meant something to me that I couldn't articulate in words, and could only honor with a paintbrush.
Until next time...
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