I found this great door in our neighborhood. It is on the back of one of my favorite houses. I love that messy tangle of tiny white lights and how they are plugged in even during the twilight hour. I wonder what is on the other side of the blue gate? The front of the house looks like someone may garden pots by the front door, but doesn’t care about the swarm of Bermuda grass sadistically and methodically taking over an another wise lovely desert landscape.
Is there a garden? A bbq? A hammock? A picnic table carved with the initials of lovers? A small fruit tree, planted a the birth of their first child? A rose bush planted over the ashes of their beloved pet? (A parakeet named Thelma, of course.)
Forever wandering, my curiosities.
My mysterious imaginary backyard these days would have a gate and tiny white lights too, though the gate would be dutch and painted a darker, cobalt blue — my favorite shade against the rusty red of desert adobe. There would be a modest outdoor kitchen with a faucet and bbq and maybe even a pit for fires. There would be a small shed with gardening tools and folding chairs, its awning providing enough shade for the compost during the hot summer days. There would be a telescope. And of course, there would be vegetable beds, pots of flowers, and a few chickens we had miraculously taught Nelson were “friends not food.” And, while we are dreaming, let’s throw in a three tiered fountain decorated in colorful Mexican tiles, and a small swimming pool full of happy, tanned, rambunctious children.
I, of course, am sitting in the shade, sipping a margarita, pulling Jackie Onassis sunglasses off of my face while shooing the chickens and children and the dogs away from the tomatoes.
They are on the dinner menu in the form of salsa and gazpacho and slipped into salads next to the basil and arugula. And everyone knows tomatoes, like people, are their happiest when still warm from garden.
Oh, to dream!