Outside My Window

I belong to several writer’s groups on social media, and this morning an author on Twitter asked other writers to simply write about what is outside their window.  I thought I would play along, so I opened the blinds and peered out the window into my backyard.

I couldn’t see much through this window because it hasn’t been cleaned since the early Nixon administration.  I doubt the author wanted me to describe the cobwebs and translucent film that blurs my vision of the backyard.  I give myself some grace for not cleaning the window because looking at the construction of this late ’60s built house, I realize that it would take the better part of a weekend and the jaws of life to remove the screen and enable me to reach the exterior glass.  

I’m assuming the author wanted to read descriptions of lush scenery and breathtaking vistas that awaken the senses and make the reader feel at one with nature.  Even if I could see out my window, I have no words to offer that would enliven the senses of a reader.  I live in North Dallas.  It would take a writer far better than me to draw the reader in with a description of the neighbors’ rooftops, brown grass, and the decaying fence with alternating wood and steel posts.

While I don’t see much in the way of scenery, I see something much better – memories.

I see a grown man trying to teach a bulldog to fetch.  With every toss of the tennis ball, the bulldog sits motionless at the man’s feet and looks up at him with an expression that says, “You gonna get that?  I’m not getting that.”  

I see the one-square-foot brown spot of dead grass. On the rare occasion when Gus went to the grass instead of peeing on the patio, he always peed in the exact same spot.  And his pee was potent enough to kill the grass.  A see a father who isn’t bothered by the brown patch even though he knows every red-blooded American male is supposed to take pride in his lawn.  He knows you can replace grass, but you can’t replace your first dog. 

I see a toddler swinging on the most basic swing set money can buy and the strain on a father’s face as he pushes through fatigue in his arms after pushing his daughter on the swing for hours while she yells, “Push me higher, Daddy. Higher.”

I see a father and daughter playing the one game of ladder golf they were able to play with their brand-new set until the new puppy chewed the entire game to pieces.

I see the look of joy and wonder on a little girl’s face as she sees snow for the first time.

I see a father using a pitching wedge to chip dog turds in the backyard and accidentally launching one into his neighbor’s backyard.  I also see zero guilt in that father’s face because every winter he has to rake and bag forty bags of leaves and knows that technically none of those leaves belong to him because he doesn’t have a single tree in his yard.

I see a three-year-old swinging her toy gold clubs with a cross-handed grip, and despite the instruction of her father, she insists on hitting the ball backward.

I see the fascinated joy of a five-year-old looking at the moon through the telescope she just got for Christmas.  And I see the joy of a father realizing that for the first time he bought his child a gift that she will use more than once before tossing it into the closet and moving on to the next Toy of the Day.  

Also, I see a little bit of sadness.  This house doesn’t have much in terms of architecture or amenities, but this is the house where the four of us (six if you include both dogs) started as a family.  We are going to be moving to a bigger house soon, but this will always be the place where we raised our children for the first five years.  Even though I know we need to move, the thought of leaving makes me sad. 

How can you miss someplace that you haven’t even left yet?