Home Field

Now that the snow is finally gone for another year, I walked the lawn to survey conditions before I jumped in with with rakes and hoes and a stream of trips to the nursery.

Mine is not a rich, luscious lawn, and there was a time I would have found that disappointing. Not now; not at this stage of my life. I noted the badly worn grass on the north side, trampled by countless touch football games last fall, and smiled at the memories of passes thrown and caught, or being juked by Sam as he raced past me into the end zone, or standing in the living room and watching the neighborhood boys running and shouting in spirited action.

I gazed at the grass still struggling to survive in what is clearly the best position for home plate in our makeshift field, where many a batter has swung and missed at wiffleballs, or knocked out a trivial grounder, but occasionally launched one over the driveway and into the hedge, the ultimate achievement in our home-run derbies.

And I smiled at the large brown patch where last fall we gathered up a giant pile of leaves for Layla to jump in, her very first autumn, and laughed quietly at how they buried her for an instant, while we all rushed for our cameras.

I would not trade my lawn for a richer, greener, neatly manicured alternative. It is a good yard for me to labor in, for Sam to edge and mow, for Jazz to do her business and for the family to gather together to rake leaves on an October Monday night. And it is a good yard for growing memories, a perennial which blooms abundantly in the back half of our lives.