Fireflies

Glancing out the glass doors to the deck, I expect to view the soft twilight reflecting gently off the green grass, the solar lights in the garden starting to glow against the creeping dusk that has already covered the vegetable garden and trees in its darkness. Unfortunately, my view is obstructed by a lot of junk on our deck.

Ever imaginative, Sian has assembled a chain and rope arrangement that would not be out of place in a medieval torture museum. A sled (as in winter sled), slanted against the stairs, is at the end of the rope. With the help of the hose that I use to water my garden, the sled becomes a water slide.

I mow the lawn, and almost run over the hoe she has used to dig in the infamous mudhole. A soccer ball on the grass closer to the house-a croquet mallet that is being used for a purpose unimagined by its creator-a bike lying directly behind my car.

All of these could be seen (and are sometimes seen) by me as one more mess to pick up-or to remind the children, in my favorite early Christian martyr voice, to get out and pick up. And yet I also soak it in---the privilege of a childhood spent, at least in part, playing games on the grass, picking up fireflies in the dusk, aiming the garden hose at friends on the sled/slide until their parents call them for lunch-these are the kind of memories I hope my children treasure.