Abode

Our house is similar to those around it, part of suburbia. It is faded pink with fake shutters on the front and a detached garage in the back. This garage is not only filled with boxes full of memories past, but also tools, wood, and steel. In front of that lies a derelict car on jack stands, awaiting its very own Dr. Frankenstein to bring it back from the dead. Further back, a gazebo sits quietly, chairs sitting like world leaders, awaiting their next quandary. The inside of the home is nothing you wouldn't expect but takes on a life of its own. It has an atmosphere of hominess often unexpected in places of such uniformity, not just for its residents, but also for its visitors, like an inn on a lonely road.

All this sounds as though, despite its quirks, it would blend quite well into suburbia, but that is far from the truth. If one were to casually stroll down the street they would see many front lawns of bright, clean cut grass. Maybe even a plant or two and a low porch, that is until you reached my home. In stark contrast to the surrounding houses, grass is in scarce quantity. Instead of grass lawns our front yard is filled with rose bushes, tall grasses, lamb's ear, and a wonderful smelling bush I have never been able to name. Instead of a low porch which you casually stroll onto, you are met quickly with steps of stone and brought to an enclosed porch. The rough pillars, fading paint, and deteriorating balcony fence intermingle with the foliage before it, giving a sense of balance that should be unknown to such a house.

House. Yard. That is how it is supposed to be. The yard is supposed to be contained, made to work for the house. Cut. Trimmed. Made to look nice. Made to look like an ideal that can be traced back through the American psyche. I like to think of my house as a statement to the otherwise. Both the front and backyard show a balance, a balance crushed at most homes for fear of “letting the house go”.

The backyard is an even better example of this phenomenon than the front. Once you step off the pavement that lies in front of the garage, you enter into another realm entirely. A realm not created by man. A realm that is embraced, but also destroyed, the realm created by nature. Fueled by rain, and the inevitable forces of nature, my backyard has become what I like to think of as a sort of oasis. You can taste in the air, you can hear it in the sounds of baby birds, you can see it from the bright green all around you. What was once a barren bark area is now abright green patch of clover. What was once a clear stone path, now supports a host of plant life, though often crushed underfoot. . A blue mat lays underneath three chairs overlooking the yard. Now darkened with saturation, small plants sprout, as it lays there, a defeated foe in a battle it could never win. Near this mat stands a mighty redwood, dedicated to my uncle's memory, a center of life, bushes and vines growing from its base.

Past this is what was once a well cut yard. It now stands changed, tall grasses and plants grow in a magnificent array, fueled by the rains of winter and a neglect to cut them. To one side of this jungle of green, stands the door entering into the garage, and on the other large masses of bushes, which has swallowed many statues into its mighty gullet. The scene at once showing the contrast always present, but acknowledging the harmony that exists. Near these bushes sits a

green metal bird pond encased in vines, valiantly standing up to its impending fate.

Beyond this is the wall separating us from the road. Cars often drive past, creating a wush of sound, mostly absorbed by the surrounding bushes. This fake stone wall has bushes and vines growing around and through it, puncturing its foam interior. A tree stands tall in front of this, a stone bench beneath it, an old solar lamp resting on it, all encased in vines. Past the encasing shrubbery lies a plastic bench, a reminder of my childhood.

All this blends with the house, surrounding it, encasing it, being one tangible thing. Home. Most would look at a home like this, and see something to clean. Something to trim. Something to cut. To restrain. To make presentable. To make uniform. I am not one of those people. My backyard is my chapel. My shrine to nature for which I love, for which is so out of reach. In a world that is often filled with problems, work, and plaster walls, I can just look outside to remind myself what else is out there, that this world of concrete is not all there is. It helps me keep things in perspective, and to put my mind at ease.

Despite these words, I must accept that one day much of this will leave me. My mother will decide to mow the lawn, or the warm weather will kill the small plants that give once boring areas life. But the memory of it will always be with me, to remind me of what else is out there.

-Nick