Over the Backyard Fence

Caroline Masterson Krieg

This afternoon I had coffee with my brother at his house. We sat on his back screened-in porch that looks out over the back yard. A yard lush with rose bushes, lilac bushes, assorted shrubs and a huge maple tree that canopies the yard. It's the maple tree that always takes me back in time. I think back to when the house belonged to my parents, and my brothers and I grew up there. I picture in my mind all the birthdays, baby and bridal showers, Fourth of July barbeques and graduation parties that were held in that yard, the lawnchairs circled beneath the maple tree, tables lined up laden with food. When my dad decided to move three years ago, having lived there alone for several years following my mother's death, I was saddened that strangers would move in, and all the memories would be washed away like sand castles melting on a beach. I was overjoyed when my brother and his wife decided to buy the place. Now, once again, the house is filled with the noise and goings-on of a family with three boys. A week ago I had the pure joy of spending an entire day in the house with my nephew who is now three. It occured to me, as I fixed his lunch, sat in the rocker in his little room that is decorated with cuddly baseball bears, and chased him down the hallway to the kitchen, that when my family moved to the house, my youngest brother was just Tommy's age. I thought of my mother doing these things with him during the day, while the three of us older kids attended the elementary school, just a block down the street. As I baked cookies with Tommy so we would have a surprise for his big brothers when they got home from work and school, I thought of my mother and how she made that house a home. I remember an aunt who visited us one time. She came in the front door, and looking around she sighed, "Oh, Caroline, your house just hugs me. It's so warm." My mother took pride in keeping the brick, Cape Cod style home neat as a pin, and more important, comfortable and liveable. The hardwood floors and braided rugs seemed old-fashioned compared to the fashionable wall-to-wall carpeting in my friends' homes. (Yet my friends flocked to my house and loved my upstairs bedroom with the sloped ceilings and old-fashioned four poster bed that was my grandmother's.) Every room in the house contained bookcases; built-in bookcases that flanked the fireplace in the living room, and smaller bookcases tucked into the dormers in the bedrooms upstairs. Most of these were my dad's handiwork. His craftsmanship was seen throughout the house, in the woodwork that finished each room and the pieces of furniture that he crafted in his workroom in the basement. To this day, the smell of sawdust and varnish makes me think of my dad at work on some piece of furniture that would delight my mother. The heart of the home was my mother's blue and white kitchen. Blue-checked wallpaper was on the wall behind the cupboards, while blue-and-white delft plates and tiles added cheer to the larger, painted white walls. My mother's home sewn curtains decorated the windows, and on the handle of the oven there always hung a pretty new dishtowel themed for the current holiday or season. The round table was more than adequate for a family of six, and it was where we gathered around when it was time for "tea" -- a ritual that took place every afternoon. Or morning. Or evening. Or whenever anyone was inclined to sit and chat at the kitchen table. The spoonholder and sugar bowel sat in the middle, at the ready for the kettle to whistle. As much as my mother knew how to make the house feel like a home, her gift was making anyone who entered feel like they were at home. There was nothing that couldn't be made better over a cup of tea and a piece of coffee cake. She and our next door neighbor were the best of friends, and many afternoons we would come home from school to find Mom and "Aunt Barb" discussing world events over a cup of tea. The kitchen was also the place that Mom did her ironing. Stacks of freshly ironed clothes would be piled on the table, and Mom would have a portable television set up so she could watch the Weekly Afternoon Movie with host Starr Yelland "Dialing for Dollars" during the intermission. She wasn't one to watch the soaps, but she loved the "old movies". And I loved coming home to a warm kitchen with the smell of freshly ironed clothes, and the tea kettle at the ready. I think about my mom a lot these days and hope that I'm creating the kind of home that my kids will remember fondly. I guess as a child growing up, I didn't give the details much thought. I just knew that home was a place that was safe and warm and that I was loved. And there was always time and a place at the table for a cup of tea.

From my kitchen window, I can look out and see our backyard and my flower gardens. Today I was looking for tiny seedlings pushing up out of the ground, scanning the trees for buds, and thinking that, before we know it, the shrubs around the edges of the yard will be so full and thick that we'll lose the view of the neighbor's yards until the fall. I've already starting preparing the beds for planting, and soon it will be time to put some flowers in, and maybe another rosebush or two. I go a bit crazy buying plants and usually end up with way too many, and have to pack them in.

As much as I can't wait to get out and dig in the dirt, Spring is also sort of bittersweet time. It was in the spring, seven years ago, that my mom passed away. It was just a week after Easter, the holiday she loved most. In a way it's fitting, because I rejoice in the rebirth that Easter celebrates, and rejoice for my mom that she is 'home' where we'll all be together again one day. And yet, I still feel her absence like a hole in my heart. At this time of year, I miss the way we would plan our gardens, scouting out the local nurseries for plants and flowers. Unfortunately, I didn't inherit the green thumb that she had, so I would follow her around, waiting to see what went in her cart, and then grab the same thing.

Mom was a born gardener. She loved to putter around with starting her own seedlings and always found room for tomato plants, forever in search of the perfect tomato that would thrive in our clay-like Colorado soil. She had a gift for nurturing things and helping them grow, whether it was a child or a plant. A few weeks before she died, she had set out her trays of seeds as usual, and had started to transfer some of the seedlings into pots. She had a special tray for my daughter, Emily, who was just three years old at the time. Mom wanted Em to know the thrill of tending to her own plants and watching them grow. So, she bought her a little watering can, and everytime we went to see her (atleast several times a week, often daily), Mom and Em would water the container of marigold seeds. They sprouted slowly, but when they did, they took off and we could see their progress almost daily.

In the cloud of grief and numbness after Mom passed, someone had the presence of mind to go out to her little greenhouse to check the plants. There, along with the tray of marigold seedlings, were pots of pumpkin plants that were just starting to sprout. There were enough for all of the grandchildren to take home and plant in their gardens. In the fall, they all had pumpkins from Gram, and my brother saved some of the seeds, so that for several years after that, Gram sent the kids pumpkins. Emily's marigolds grew strong and hearty, and we planted them in the back yard where Em could tend to them all summer long. It gave me such peace to have those flowers in my garden, a little bit of Mom to be with us during that long summer. It's a bit like having her quilts to wrap around me, yet this is something that is living and growing. Something that she nurtured, something living, that I can care for. Now, don't get me wrong, as I said I do not have a green thumb. In fact, I've entrusted my sister-in-law (who does) with the ivy plant that was started from the little sprig of ivy in my wedding bouquet. Always with an eye on connecting the generations, Mom said that one day, my daughter would have a bouquet and a piece of the ivy would be tucked inside. However, she knew better than to give me the plant, and I'm sure she's breathed a great sigh of relief to know that Jenn has taken on its guardianship until the time comes.