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"Front yards are boring.

Backyards tell stories."

-- "Backyards," Popcorn, James Stevenson, 1998

When I grew up and returned to my first back yard, in Bowling Green, KY, I was stunned at how flat, rectangular and ordinary it was. I was 30-something then, a mother a few times over, and I had forgotten that the quality of back yards lay in the imagination of the people who played there.

My back yard ended at a concrete wall that dropped off to the back yard the next street down. From our side, it was a launch pad for flying stunts, though it was barely 3 feet tall. It was the perfect nighttime hiding place, and its flat top served as a solar oven where we laid out mud confections to bake.

Behind the garage in my back yard, stood two mature maple trees I remembered as a forest. Our street was new when I was a kid, so most of the trees were tiny transplants. I spent many hours hiding in the lush shadows of our backyard "forest" when I didn't want to play with my brother and sisters, when I felt like escaping the unyielding sky, when I felt like standing next to something so immeasurably larger than me that the only proper response was silence.

My family moved several times throughout my childhood and young adulthood. Our next back yard shared a fence with the schoolyard and gave me a tree perch from where I could spy on the whole neighborhood. A year later, another back yard gave me the miracle of a creek. Barely a moving sliver of water for most of the year, this was nonetheless enough of a creek to harbor exotic toads on its banks, and dense gnarly foliage so thick you had to move it aside roughly to get to the water. A trip across the back yard, barely 40-feet-square, landed me in a place of wet adventure and mystery.

We moved again, to a small Tennessee town where our neighborhood, set on the far edge, had no street lights. In our back yard, pear and cherry trees planted by a former owner smelled sickly sweet in the summer and provided the perfect place to be kissed for real by a neighbor boy, in hallowed, fermented darkness.

Another move, my last with my family, to Memphis, where our back yard connected with a huge field behind a large, suburban Methodist church. The boyfriend who taught me to make out until my lips were numb and swollen, the one who was always in trouble, who was forever failing a class but could draw and sing like a dream, pulled the flimsy wire mesh fence at the far end of the back yard down so we could jump over to Mullins field and lie in the grass beneath the stars. We snuck cigarettes, blowing smoke rings into the damp air, made out some more, then jumped back over the fence to the back yard.

My daughter's first back yard was a heavily wooded, steep hill leading up to a Boy Scout lodge, rarely used, the spawn of many urban myths in our Nashville neighborhood. For a short time, her back yard was a Hawaiian hilltop, dotted with plumeria trees and awesome coconut palms. My sons were preschoolers in another heavily wooded Nashville back yard, this one sloping dramatically downhill, providing momentum for their short legs and plenty of tumbles through the inevitable piles of rotting leaves.

That particular house, as I recall, was chosen and bought for the stories the back yard held. When I first viewed the house, I walked out the downstairs back door, onto a yard that had not been tamed or domesticated in many years. Beneath a giant oak tree stood the crumbling remains of a face-to-face wooden glider, most of the white paint peeled off, birds' nests built in the crevices where the caving roof attached to the frame. The women who lived there before me were nature lovers, neighbors told me, and they called the back yard "the bird sanctuary." I imagined them swinging at dusk, after supper, beneath the giant oak, dropping bread crumbs for their avian friends.

My back yard now tells the story of how, about five years ago, I turned my attention away from the busy street that fronts my house to the flat, featureless rectangle out back. Now the yard is about 70 percent garden -- raised beds buried beneath dried foliage and seedheads. It is messy and haphazard, crowded and unplanned, glorious in its excess.

All it needs, I think, is a face-to-face, white wooden glider, for a quick swing after supper.

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