When we bought our house, one of the things that really sold me on it was the backyard.
It’s sort of an average-sized yard, surrounded by a chain link fence and, at the moment, blanketed with dry, brown leaves. But it’s bordered by mature azaleas and there’s a big camellia loaded with buds just outside the kitchen window. This pleases me to no end.
There’s enough room for a picnic table and maybe, at some point, a swing set. There are sunny spots and shady spots and two big magnolia trees reaching across the fence from the next-door neighbor’s yard.
There’s also a funny little space for building backyard fires. I don’t really know what to call it. A fire pit isn’t quite right but calling it an outdoor fireplace makes it sound pretty fancy, which it’s not. It’s just a little bricked-in area with a chimney at the back.
As soon as I saw it, I started imagining evenings filled with slightly scorched marshmallows, melty chocolate and graham crackers.