Not My Backyard

My backyard (or at least my parents backyard) is a patch of grass receding into a forest dominated by a towering split trunk Norway Maple. From the maple's lowest branch hangs a tire swing on a red white and blue nylon rope. In the fall, rain and leaves collect in the tire to be emptied out every spring. There's a board bridging the trunks about twelve feet up, which my brother constructed in the vain hope of someday having a treehouse. Every February we take out the hand drill with the 3/4" bit tapping the maple for its sweet sap. One year we collected enough to boil down into syrup. The patch of grass is cut in two by a clothesline which also serves as an impromptu badminton net. The yard is flat, perfect for a croquet game or a picnic blanket for the kids when the adults have taken all the seats on the deck. There was once an old blue and yellow swing set but that was taken down years ago when one of the rusty poles fell on someone's head. In the winter there is a birdfeeder or two and more birdseed on the ground where an unsuspecting cardinal was scooped up by a red-tail hawk.

The years have taken their toll and the storms and arborists have tamed the forest including felling the remains of the great maple. My dad recently sent sent me this picture of a flat grass and dirt expanse stretching almost to the stone wall bordered by piles and piles of freshly cut logs. That looks the neighbors yard. That's not my backyard.