By Bertie Brouhard
Yes. Your backyard; figuratively and maybe literally. Some reading this may not have a backyard. Most with a family unit I suspect do. But like mine it’s California and rather small and fenced in. It might have a pool; likely not. But certainly it has possibilities for some summer fun; perhaps badminton, ping pong, croquet, your hacky sack, horse shoe or cornhole area or an archery (yikes) range. In my youth I tried it all including a makeshift baseball batting cage that did not even slightly improve my hitting.
As for your family I envision two parent figures and two youngsters and while I encourage everyone to read on, this column has these four in mind.
One of my granddaughters once asked me “Were you ever four?” She was curious. I must have looked ancient to her. I smiled and told her it’s a wonderful age. About that time 1950 C.E. or so mine and other parents of my buds let us sleep outside in someone’s backyard on warm, humid, star studded Nebraska summer nights. I don’t recall tents but remember the many mosquitoes, the sound of UP freight trains and back porch lights and our flashlights. Feigning sleep around ten I suppose we were off on our bikes roaming the many streets, parks, construction sites and gardens in our small town. We knew where the best melons, apples, rhubarb and strawberries could be picked and where others; especially girls our age, might join us for our jaunts. It all went well until our neighbor, the ever vigilant spinster, Mrs. Pierceson, ratted us out. She caused a month’s pause in our adventures, having told my dad, “I saw your son and a couple of his “ruffian” friends downtown last night. (Just what is a “ruffian?”)
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