The Backyard
"Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things."
- Cicero -
The large Manitoba Maple shaded most of our backyard causing it to feel cool, and at certain parts of the day, dark. Early on, the entire yard was lawn and it was the crab grass that grew the best. Eventually, pink and grey patio stones replaced the threadbare covering. In a raised garden in the yard’s middle, my mother planted pansies and a forsythia bush that never bloomed.
The fence on one side of the yard was picket, and on one side, wire with a wood frame. My father’s garage separated us from the oiled laneway. Between the fences, the Manitoba Maple, fortified my tiny sanctuary with her expansive branches.
I thought of the backyard as my own. My parents were liberal about the space, allowing me, and eventually both my sisters, to really own it. My father built a wooden structure with a half-door and shingled roof, and with our improvisations, it became the store, the school and the theatre. We perfected mud-pie creations in the sandbox. Sometimes the swing set where I swung and climbed, became unpegged, and when it toppled over, great excitement ensued. When there was no kids to play with, the ants who traversed across the patio stones, captured my curiosity.
The Women Next Door
Her name was Betty and Mildred was her mother. What I knew about Mildred was this–she was three times a widow and after her last husband died, her cantankerous pipe-smoking father moved into her house. He smoked outside and when I said hello, he grunted and would turn to pretend like he hadn’t been watching me. I liked it best when he went back the house and my yard would feel like it was my own again.
Under the shade of the Manitoba Maple, Betty sat on her white wooden swing, the kind with a pergola overtop and a slat floor with two benches that faced each other. Mildred was the only other person who ever accompanied Betty on the swing I longed to sit.
Betty’s mother shielded her. She had to. At thirty-years old, Betty functioned at the cognitive level of a three or four-year-old. Her vocabulary included, “Ta, ta, ta,” which meant, “Hello.” and when she stood by the fence, she’d slip her warm silky hand though the wire and say “Hold, your hand?” Betty would ask no fewer than three times.
She was neatly groomed and I recall wondering if her mother dressed her. She wore thick stockings and black-laced boots with chucky flat heels, and her straight cut hair sat abruptly above her ears. Patterned dresses, with a sweater to match, fell well below her knees. Betty, plumb, was as tall as her slender mother. When she smiled, Betty had no teeth and I never asked why.
I adored Betty. She was my special friend.
A friend is one who takes our hand
And talks a speech you
understand
[excerpt from A Friend, by Edgar Albert Guest]
Mildred’s backyard was as contained as ours. This was because the T boys, who lived down the lane, had the horrible habit of hollering offensive language in Betty’s direction.
“Retard!” “Weirdo!”
There wasn’t much Mildred could do, other than let her burly shrubs grow wild over the rickety fence.
When Mildred died, Betty went away to live in an institution. Months later when a caretaker brought her to the neighbourhood, I rushed to greet them. Wearing pants and a bright sweater, Betty looked different. She was slim and light brown hair fell around her face. There was a sparkle in her eye and when she smiled, her white teeth looked terrific. Betty had settled in well, her caretaker said. She had new words and she was helping to dress herself.
I asked to take her hand and she let me and when we said goodbye, I sensed it was forever.
A friend is constant, honest, true
In short, ol pal, [s]he’s just like you.
- [excerpt from A Friend, by Edgar Albert Guest]
Lovely stories Bev. Touching❤️
Heart Warming …yet sad. You are so talented Bev. Love your Work.