A Walker in the Suburbs

Last night we were visited by a woman named Maud. A couple weeks ago she had offered to take the large logs in the back of our yard, what’s left of the grand old oak that fell from the sky more than a year ago, and sell them to her customers as firewood. We hadn’t found anyone else who would haul them away without charging us a lot, so this seemed like a good arrangement. And then the rains (finally) came, and the ground was too soggy. She’s been busy delivering firewood and hasn’t had time to replenish her supply. Hence the nighttime visit.

So as we sat in our snug house and tried to calm the dog, Maud and two helpers worked by the light of a Coleman lantern. They cut the large logs, hauled them to the front of the house and threw them in a truck. It was a strange sound, chainsaws in the darkness, and made me feel part of an ancient drama. The frantic work of fall, of harvesting late crops and cutting the last field of hay.

On Sunday I took down the hammock and put it in the garage. I may drag it out again before storing it for the winter, but then again, I may not. The hammock greatly enhanced our summer. It was another place to be outside, and because it hung in the back of our yard, it gave us the rare vantage point of looking toward the house.

One of my favorite times to sit there was when it was getting dark and the lamps were lit in the living room and kitchen and our house looked like an orange orb, so cozy and inviting. Its flaws and dust were hidden then in the subtle glow.

Without the hammock the trees look naked. More than I miss lying in the hammock I miss looking at it. Could it be that the promise of leisure is better than leisure itself?

When summer began I had high hopes for a flowery bower, a vine-entwined pergola under which we would sip tea in the morning and eat our raucous dinners at night. The deck was empty without the climbing rose, and we would make up for it with some cheap lattice panels and the promise of a vine. It’s taken the whole summer but finally we have tendrils, slight, clingy things that wrap themselves around whatever they can find. And today, we have a purple morning glory, a sweet gift at summer’s end.

Finally home after a 12-hour workday, I flop on the hammock. It’s almost dark, and Tom is grilling. He uses a clip-on light to see what he’s flipping. Two lamb chops (for him), portobello mushrooms and zucchini for Celia and me. From time to time there’s a flare of orange light — our grill is a feisty thing — which brightens the deck. I feel lazy lying in the hammock. But not lazy enough to get up and move. Instead, I watch the color disappear from the leaves. As I swing, they fade to black.

Pots of soil went into its being, hundreds of gallons of water and hours of summer light. Once there were several blossoms on this plant; now there aren’t any.

Instead, there is one red orb, ripening slowly in the sun.

It’s that time of the summer when you realize that what you have, produce-wise, is what you’ll get. So let me introduce you to my only child. Next stop: the farmer’s market.

The backyard is weedy, the hedges need trimming and the garden lacks vision. It’s about this time of year that I always wish we had a gardener. For most household tasks, I appreciate the doing as well as the getting done — polishing the furniture, washing the dishes, sweeping the floor. But as much as I love being outside, I find the outdoor tasks more daunting. The gap between the cottage garden of my dreams and the real, hodgepodge yard we have is too great to bridge.
Luckily, I know this stage will pass. Once the grass is mown and the summer perennials bloom, I will once again accept our yard for what it is. But until then…my kingdom for a gardener!