Plastic Memories

Spring is here, and I was working in my yard this week. I love yard work. I love the physicality of the shovel in earth, digging down into the dirt and turning over new possibilities. I love seeing perennials poking their green shoots up through last year's mulch, remembering that I'd planted something new there last year and here it is coming back for another season. I love dividing the bounty of hostas and day lilies and black-eyed Susans, moving a plant from the sun to the shade or the shade to the sun so it can thrive in a new spot. And I love the anticipation of what is to come...the flowers and the full leaves, the caterpillars and butterflies, the birds and frogs that visit my yard each summer. 

My backyard especially has undergone massive changes in the last five years. When we moved into our house 20 years ago, there was a huge silver maple smack dab in the middle of the relatively small space off the patio. In one corner of the yard, which was covered in pine needles, we added a playset for the kids, complete with swings, a slide, an elevated "house" and a small bench and table. The big maple always shaded our yard, and with kids playing in it all the time, nothing much grew in the back besides hostas. Even grass struggled. 

The kids were always in the back. The girls played house and store and school. They brought out stuffed and plastic animals and had a zoo or a vet shop. They took their baby dolls and Barbies and backpacks full of plastic food and dishes outside and set up whatever imagination station they could think of that day. Kyle and his friends turned the backyard into a battleground. He had an old, wooden Army supply box full of GI Joes and plastic army men and dinosaurs, and he'd bring the whole box outside and create battle scenes and bomb the enemy with pinecones. When he got older, he and his friends had airsoft gun wars around the house, and the play set was a favorite spot, having the high ground and all.  

I'd sit on the patio, in the shade of the maple, and watch the kids play. I'd sometimes dream of a well-manicured yard and spent time researching colorful shade plants for the day when I wouldn't have to worry about them getting trampled on by little feet. 

About five years ago, since the kids were now in their late teens, we figured it was time to move the play set on. We offered it to our neighbors across the street, who had two little girls. They were thrilled to have it, and I was happy to see it going to a new home. I went to work laying out new hostas and azaleas and rhododendrons in the yard where the play set used to be. I found some grass that did well in shade and rejoiced when it came up and stayed green. I added hellebores, coral bells, hydrangeas, and ferns. I planted impatiens in the summers to add color. Every once in awhile, I'd dig up a green army man or a plastic hamburger or a yellow airsoft pellet. I'd throw them back into the dirt for someone else to find one day. It was a beautiful shade garden, and I loved knowing there were hidden pieces of the past planted alongside the flowers. 

Then we lost the maple. 

Three years ago, it dropped a major branch onto one neighbor's fence. There was a small knot hole that hid the fact that the entire branch had been hollowed out. We cleaned it up and had the tree inspected and was assured that it was fine and healthy. A year and a half later, another branch fell onto a different neighbor's roof, crashing through the attic and into a bedroom closet. That branch had also been hollowed out. A couple of weeks later, we had the tree removed. 

Our yard looked so different. It was bigger, brighter and open. What had been shaded for most of the day was now in full sun. The hydrangeas wilted by early afternoon. The ferns dried up. The hostas got scorched. I began planting and digging and moving things around. Some things adapted. Some things died. I was excited about having more sun. I tried putting in a small garden. It did okay but not great. I had no idea what else to plant, so I planted nothing. 

This week, I finally decided to start reinventing the yard. I edged a bigger space along the fence for more plants. I put in a witch hazel and a deciduous magnolia. I divided the hostas and hellebores and dug up the overgrown black-eyed Susans and cut back the forsythia. 

 Along the way, I found the remains of a plastic army man, some airsoft pellets, and a penguin. 

      

Each one took me back to when my kids were little, playing under the maple tree for hours on summer days. I could see them in my mind; their sweaty, popsicle-streaked faces, their bare feet, the girls' toes painted with bubblegum pink polish, clothes dirty and grass stained. It took my breath away how fast time has gone. One of those kids is getting married in October. Another graduates college next month. The third is finishing her freshman year of college in two weeks. How is this even possible?

 

I left the army man, the pellets, and the penguin in the yard like I do every time I find one of those plastic memories. I know there is a hamburger, part of a toy baby carrier, a plastic play fork, a Barbie shoe out in the yard somewhere. I hope I keep finding them year after year. I'll keep putting them back in the dirt, and I hope when I'm gone from this house, the new owners will know that the backyard was once a playhouse, a zoo, a battlefield, and a store. A place where kids lived and played hard, where imagination ruled, and a mom sat on the patio and took it all in.