My Backyard

Sometimes I think my (metaphorical) backyard isn't all that different from a lot of other people's. My home is in a first-ring suburb of a large city. Some of the schools are within walking-distance, others require a bus ride. There's a Target nearby. And a library. We're not too far from a shopping mall. I've got neighbors; some I know, some I don't. I read the local papers, occasionally watch the news. I live close to my immediate family, not close enough to my extended one.

Yet every day, I am made keenly aware that I do not share the same backyard as people who live only a few miles from me. I've never known extreme poverty or extreme wealth. I don't drive a luxury car, don't have a swimming pool. But I also don't wonder how I'm going to feed and clothe my children.

Basically, my backyard is in the middle. And honestly, I'm very comfortable in the middle. It's my favorite place. I'm a middle child. I have a moderate temperament. I don't need to be first but dread being last. So even if I've had a rotten day -- if the bills are piled up or the dishwasher overflowed, if I'm ticked at my husband or mad at one of my kids -- when I walk the dog around my neighborhood, it almost always lifts my spirits. Kids are usually out, laughing and playing. I wave at friends and often stop to chat. I pass sturdy, warm houses with pretty flowerbeds and imperfect lawns. I hear the birds and see the trees, and by the time I get home, I'm thinking that life is pretty damn good -- right here in my own backyard.