My yard... I think I'll burn it.

I just came in from doing a little yard work, traversed to the fridge, grabbed myself a much deserved cold one (“cold one” equates to a can of Diet Sunkist for folks like me), and plopped down in front of my trusty computer; where I will now commence complaining about my yard.

Let’s get right to the point. I want to burn it. I have seen how they burn the meadows in the national park every few years… seems like a very fine idea. Give me some matches, lighter fluid, and a hose and I’ll “getter done”. Seriously though, this is my first spring at my new place north of Charlottesville and I can tell you this… I liked my yard a whole lot better when it was beneath two and a half feet of snow.

I just finished mowing the lawn. Just the back yard actually. Well, only the upper half of the backyard. Right up to where it starts running downhill at a slope that even a ski jumper would wince at. Now don’t start thinking I didn’t do much. That upper half is at least the same square footage as my whole yard in Virginia Beach… front AND back. And let’s talk about terrain... geesh! Aside from the slope, it’s a dirt-biker’s delight… holes and tree roots and gullies galore.

My observation: There is not a level square foot in the whole backyard. That’s living in the country… where the grass is not only greener, it's also harder to mow.

The Old Victrola That Is My Mind

A memory wandered into my mind tonight... I’m not sure why... but sometimes one just needs to go where the mind wants them to go.

In late October 1977, my fiancé (Laura… now my wife of 32 years) and I traveled north from Virginia Beach to my hometown of Perth, New York. I had just turned 21 years old the month prior and Laura was just a week away from turning 20. It was a magical time, we were young and our whole lives lay in front of us. We had been engaged since February, and the wedding was set for January. We had no other plans, and frankly, no idea of what we were doing, but we had dreams and we had each other, and that was enough.

The trip to Perth was important. I wanted Laura to meet the people I had talked so often about (aunts, uncles, grandmother, and cousins) and I wanted her to see in person the places that I had described and written to her about (while she was away in California the year before).

As planned, Laura met my relatives (sadly, many are now gone) and she was able to see where I had lived (in the house that my dad built in 1959), where I went to school (through the sixth grade… a K-12 school… whose yearbook was thinner than that of my junior high in Virginia Beach), and the farmhouse where my mother and aunts were born. We also hung around my aunt and uncle’s tavern (Mickey’s)… a place that I always thought of as the center of my universe. It was the one place that I thought would always be there… a home to me… no matter how far I wandered or how long I was away. Sadly, Mickey’s Tavern is also gone. But in 1977 it was in full swing and Laura and I had a wonderful time there.

At the urging of my aunt Tessie, we took a day trip. Heading east, we drove to Lake George, and then, after a brief stop and look around, we continued trekking east and meandered into Vermont.

Stopping at a place with barns full of old items for sale, we had fun rummaging through piles of antiques and junk. We did not know the difference between the two but it was fun trying to figure it out. Before leaving, we decided to buy something to remember the trip with, so we picked out two RCA albums (with the famous dog and Victrola on the cover) full of 78 RPM records . I recall the name Tex Ritter being on a few of the records… the others I can’t recall. Both albums still adorn a shelf at our home in Virginia Beach.

After that we simply drove along quiet country roads and drank in the beauty of a late New England autumn. By dusk we were in a town named Manchester, a ski town I think, where we settled in for dinner at an Italian restaurant named “Garlic John’s Spaghetti House”. We dined by candlelight. I recall it being so dark that we could not see our food; but it did not matter, the food tasted fine and the atmosphere was very relaxing. It was the late 70’s in Vermont… it was a magical time… a simpler time.

I’m not sure why this trip is on my mind right now. I can’t even tell you what triggered it. It can’t be the time of year… it’s April as I write this… and autumn is so far away. Perhaps it’s simply because I often think of my northern home, and the family that I miss. Perhaps this particular memory just happened to be “ready to go”… taken down from the shelf by someone who knew I needed to travel north tonight… dusted off… and placed on that old Victrola that is my mind.

Well… the reason matters not… it’s the memory that is important.

Memories of a journey, taken during the waning days of a crisp and cool October some 30 odd years ago are keeping me company tonight. The memories make me smile. And they bring a tear to my eye. They make me whole. A few minutes from now I will step away from this keyboard and head off to bed. I will take these memories with me… and if I am lucky… when I slip from this world into sleep… I will dream an Adirondack dream.