Saturday

A day at the beach is relaxing, the amusement park fun, but neither is more satisfying than a day spent working in my backyard. Saturday morning begins on my back porch where I slip on my old tennis shoes, stained green from years of cutting grass in them. Three stone steps lead down to the backyard, where warm sunshine filters through the tall pine trees surrounding it, providing light and shade. The sun in my backyard is as warm as the sun at any beach, but without the crowds to wade through and the seagulls to scare away from my ham sandwich, I am able to enjoy it without distraction. Unlike the beach, when I'm done for the afternoon, I don't have to clean sand from inside my 1970 burnt amber Dodge Dart.

In the center of my garden oasis, a soft, green lawn unfolds. As I step across the lawn, each step is imprinted into the surface. This record of my traverse fades moments later as the grass straightens back to attentioneach blade returning to perfect form. Here the trees part and the sun gives full blessing to the grass, turning the water and nutrients I've laid down into a lush carpeting softer than any rug from the Orient.

As with every Saturday, I start by mowing the lawn. The stout aroma of freshly cut grass fills my backyard and will linger there until the morning. Once I finish, I take off my shoes and put them back on the porch, ready for next weekend. I like to walk around in the yard in my bare feet and wiggle my toes in the plush grass I've worked hard to nurture.

The hummingbirds and chickadees return to my haven from wherever they go when I'm making too much noise for their comfort. I listen to them as I rest