The Austin Backyard, 1998-2005
The jingle of the swings’ chains was a natural accompaniment to outdoor play in our Austin yard. Backs arching, toes reaching above the fence, eyes trained to catch glimpses of the field beyond the fence, Paige and Daniel soared. Days in Austin felt heavy with moist air and heat. Clouds, creating a blank white, arching cover on the skies, were a blessing because they shielded us from the sun.
When Paige began school, the poem, “The Swing” by Robert Lewis Stevenson was her first memorization project. She recited it on the swing with natural soaring expressions as her toes reached for the clouds.
There was a bucket swing for babies, with two holes for chubby legs. Baby Timothy’s feet, socks dangling from his toes as he kicked in his swing, are a detail from memory that I can only associate with him.
Parents of the neighbor children joined us to visit while their children played, our conversations sometimes interrupted by requests for an “underdog” where a parent would run beneath the child, lifting the child on the swing high above the head. For those moments when our children were in the swings, they were happy and their needs were simple.
In summer, the three crape myrtle tress along the back fence erupted into vivid pink blossoms; this vibrant color gleaned from such poor, shallow soil and heat was a miracle of Texas ingenuity.
Late afternoons and early evenings were best for backyard play because our west-facing house created full shade at this time of day. The heat wasn’t the only challenge in Texas. There were also fire ants. The swings kept young feet safe from the fire ants lurking in the dirt. These ants, with their mob-like dynamics of swarm-and-sting were the perpetual enemy. Turning on the hose was the fastest, surest way to remove fire ants when they bit and stung little feet and legs. Daniel’s reactions to ant bites were the most severe, and sometimes he would have pussy blisters between his toes. Sometimes the kids put on their long rubber boots to avoid ant bites as they played.
The large cement patio was always littered with sidewalk chalk, balls, and child-propelled vehicles. There was a plastic play house with a half door and windows with shutters. The patio was like a stage, elevated enough that we could see it from the field behind the house and the street, Bratton Lane beyond the field. Coming home from errands on Bratton Lane I could look to the patio and see our children playing outside.
As the children grew, we decided to add a trampoline to the yard. The swing set was dismantled when we moved to Arizona, in hopes that it would be rebuilt someday, but it wasn’t. There wasn’t enough space in our new yard. I called this one of the casualties of our move.
The trampoline remained a part of our yard in Arizona, but it became a casualty of our move to Utah. During the move, we unpacked the swings and placed them on the garage shelf, like a memorial. The hope that they will be used again dims each year. You will also find our trampoline poles in a pile in the backyard, the once happy trappings of childhood play, now just a haphazard monument to those earlier days.
Our yards in Arizona and Utah were beautiful and unique, but playing in Austin on the swings against the pink canvas of blossoming trees was a wonderful beginning.
