The courtyard. I’ve often described the building as “surrounded by the black wrought iron fence, and we have a little courtyard. It’s great.” The courtyard has changed over the years I’ve been there. I was told that not long before I moved in, the wooden fence making the North wall was installed, with the wrought iron marking the East and West sides. A total of three gates, one with a curved arch.
Our building is L shaped, giving the courtyard an L shape as well. Or perhaps it’s capital Gamma shaped. Either way, in the beginning, years ago, there wasn’t much to it. We had a sense of camaraderie, those of us that lived there and sort of bonded. Some plastic lawn chairs and a hand-me-down picnic table. Many a night with friends dragging a chair out, or trying to avoid splinters on the weather worn picnic table.
Bobby, Joe, Jennifer, and later Carrie. All gone now, and likely to not be a reoccurring part of any blogs. First names common enough that I don’t have to hide them. But important enough people in the past, and in the make up and texture of the courtyard, that they deserve to have their names. Jennifer, beautiful, strong, seemingly independent. Hopelessly in love with Joe. Bobby, who could of starred as a lead singer for Nickelback, except he had no musical talent. Fun and (mostly) honest. Later Carrie would come into the building, with a beautiful dog and a sexy, earthy appeal. Carrie was the kind of girl that would still wear a bit of a midriff after she got a wee bit of a muffin top. And somehow, I found it strangely sexy on her. Like she was saying, “THIS is what a real woman looks like.” Carrie moved in after asking me one day if I knew a place she could live, laid back, where no one would care if she smoked a little dope. Well, that was our place. A tree with long branches hanging down obscured details of a lit end from prying eyes. The biggest risk to a dope smoker was that the two brothers at the end of the building might want some. Carrie and her dog loved living here, until a baby, a baby’s daddy, and an aging father made a need for a home to include a house.
I could write and journal for pages, and probably never fully describe the relationships betwixt and between so many of the residents and myself, and the courtyard. I could tell the story of the tenant, about to be evicted, who made a vignette on the sidewalk out of his belongings. Or the couple who would fight, he would sleep in his truck. She would tell me, “I swept today. You wouldn’t believe how many leaves blow into this corner in a day” and I never did, until she was gone, and I had to sweep for myself. Or I could tell about names written in wood, with dates and memories, now painted over in dark green. I could wonder how many beer tops and bottles are on the other side of the green fence, where trees and bushes grow tall, reaching for the sun, adding to our courtyard’s almost New Orleans-esque atmosphere. I can remember days of a neighborhood festival, with all my building-neighbors dragging out card tables to hold crockpots and coolers and bags of chips, with a motley assortment of lawn chairs.
Slowly, time passes, and keeps on passing. In the life of an apartment building, had it life to live, probably just a day or two. To me, a few years. And all are gone, except me. One lady remains upstairs, but has always remained upstairs, never a part of the courtyard. I alone bridge the gape from then to now, from who was, to who is. No one bridges the gap from before me deeper into the beginnings. Like a guard who knows the man he relieved, and the man who joins him, but not the one before, and not yet the future.
Time passes, and keeps on passing. The courtyard has changed. Patio bricks line the North wall, red squares to make a solid surface for a large, glass topped patio table and chairs. A wrought iron end table sits among three patio chairs. A climbing red rose covers the archway, bushes out on top, and tries to reach towards the wrought iron fence. White lights dot the patio umbrella and stretch down the dark green wooden fence. Dotting the yard with specks of sparkle are hanging lawn ornaments that may sparkle at night in the flickering of torches. Mulch covers garden areas where first season plantings attempt to make their stand and bloom. And some nights, the new things come out, paper lanterns recently bought, not yet left to the whims of weather. Fall and winter brought a brass fire pit, now retired for the summer, amid laughs to one neighbor-tenant who is known as the building pyromaniac. Six packs of beer have been replaced by a pitcher of champagne mixed with Fresca, or a bottle of red wine, or white if you have it. Vodka mixes add to a night’s revelry. Boxes of chocolate. Dinners on the patio with homemade meals of roast and potatoes. Plates of burgers and fries, all under a lit canopy. Such luxury as the patio has not seen in my time.
Harsh winter brought a seasonal close to the patio, for all except the pyromaniac. The rest of us staved off winter as long as we could, using the fire pit to hold back the chill of Fall. But in the South, even the harshest of winters doesn’t last long. We were peeking our heads out near the end of March. Now into full blown May, the lights are lit again, and meals are beginning to cook. The glass table top has been cleaned, and ants make their way like tiny soldiers.
But underlying all the accoutrement of the patio are the neighbor-tenants living there. Foo Foo girl who loves her red wine, and whose normally slightly nasal voice goes into a higher pitch with each glass. The Gay Couple, each handsome in their own way, with two feisty little jack Russell terriers for children, who love vodka and anything. The pyromaniac comes back down. Youthful, blue collar, in the evenings looking and smelling like a fresh shower, with a cold mug of beer. Each so distinct, their personalities. Such a nice addition to the fabric of the courtyard. But all of us temporary, I know. Like knitting yard and running out of a color, leaving it in and starting with a new one. Someday, I will be gone. I have hopes and dreams that may take me from the courtyard. I imagine they each too have dreams that don’t include forever in the courtyard. But for now, each of us together, peeking our heads at night with our voices high, “You stepping outside? Just let me get a drink and I’ll be out there.”
“The world is changed.
I feel it in the water.
I feel it in the earth.
I smell it in the air.
Much that once was, is lost.
For none now live who remember it.
And some things that should not have been forgotten, were lost.
History became legend. Legend became myth.” - LOTR
Our building is L shaped, giving the courtyard an L shape as well. Or perhaps it’s capital Gamma shaped. Either way, in the beginning, years ago, there wasn’t much to it. We had a sense of camaraderie, those of us that lived there and sort of bonded. Some plastic lawn chairs and a hand-me-down picnic table. Many a night with friends dragging a chair out, or trying to avoid splinters on the weather worn picnic table.
Bobby, Joe, Jennifer, and later Carrie. All gone now, and likely to not be a reoccurring part of any blogs. First names common enough that I don’t have to hide them. But important enough people in the past, and in the make up and texture of the courtyard, that they deserve to have their names. Jennifer, beautiful, strong, seemingly independent. Hopelessly in love with Joe. Bobby, who could of starred as a lead singer for Nickelback, except he had no musical talent. Fun and (mostly) honest. Later Carrie would come into the building, with a beautiful dog and a sexy, earthy appeal. Carrie was the kind of girl that would still wear a bit of a midriff after she got a wee bit of a muffin top. And somehow, I found it strangely sexy on her. Like she was saying, “THIS is what a real woman looks like.” Carrie moved in after asking me one day if I knew a place she could live, laid back, where no one would care if she smoked a little dope. Well, that was our place. A tree with long branches hanging down obscured details of a lit end from prying eyes. The biggest risk to a dope smoker was that the two brothers at the end of the building might want some. Carrie and her dog loved living here, until a baby, a baby’s daddy, and an aging father made a need for a home to include a house.
I could write and journal for pages, and probably never fully describe the relationships betwixt and between so many of the residents and myself, and the courtyard. I could tell the story of the tenant, about to be evicted, who made a vignette on the sidewalk out of his belongings. Or the couple who would fight, he would sleep in his truck. She would tell me, “I swept today. You wouldn’t believe how many leaves blow into this corner in a day” and I never did, until she was gone, and I had to sweep for myself. Or I could tell about names written in wood, with dates and memories, now painted over in dark green. I could wonder how many beer tops and bottles are on the other side of the green fence, where trees and bushes grow tall, reaching for the sun, adding to our courtyard’s almost New Orleans-esque atmosphere. I can remember days of a neighborhood festival, with all my building-neighbors dragging out card tables to hold crockpots and coolers and bags of chips, with a motley assortment of lawn chairs.
Slowly, time passes, and keeps on passing. In the life of an apartment building, had it life to live, probably just a day or two. To me, a few years. And all are gone, except me. One lady remains upstairs, but has always remained upstairs, never a part of the courtyard. I alone bridge the gape from then to now, from who was, to who is. No one bridges the gap from before me deeper into the beginnings. Like a guard who knows the man he relieved, and the man who joins him, but not the one before, and not yet the future.
Time passes, and keeps on passing. The courtyard has changed. Patio bricks line the North wall, red squares to make a solid surface for a large, glass topped patio table and chairs. A wrought iron end table sits among three patio chairs. A climbing red rose covers the archway, bushes out on top, and tries to reach towards the wrought iron fence. White lights dot the patio umbrella and stretch down the dark green wooden fence. Dotting the yard with specks of sparkle are hanging lawn ornaments that may sparkle at night in the flickering of torches. Mulch covers garden areas where first season plantings attempt to make their stand and bloom. And some nights, the new things come out, paper lanterns recently bought, not yet left to the whims of weather. Fall and winter brought a brass fire pit, now retired for the summer, amid laughs to one neighbor-tenant who is known as the building pyromaniac. Six packs of beer have been replaced by a pitcher of champagne mixed with Fresca, or a bottle of red wine, or white if you have it. Vodka mixes add to a night’s revelry. Boxes of chocolate. Dinners on the patio with homemade meals of roast and potatoes. Plates of burgers and fries, all under a lit canopy. Such luxury as the patio has not seen in my time.
Harsh winter brought a seasonal close to the patio, for all except the pyromaniac. The rest of us staved off winter as long as we could, using the fire pit to hold back the chill of Fall. But in the South, even the harshest of winters doesn’t last long. We were peeking our heads out near the end of March. Now into full blown May, the lights are lit again, and meals are beginning to cook. The glass table top has been cleaned, and ants make their way like tiny soldiers.
But underlying all the accoutrement of the patio are the neighbor-tenants living there. Foo Foo girl who loves her red wine, and whose normally slightly nasal voice goes into a higher pitch with each glass. The Gay Couple, each handsome in their own way, with two feisty little jack Russell terriers for children, who love vodka and anything. The pyromaniac comes back down. Youthful, blue collar, in the evenings looking and smelling like a fresh shower, with a cold mug of beer. Each so distinct, their personalities. Such a nice addition to the fabric of the courtyard. But all of us temporary, I know. Like knitting yard and running out of a color, leaving it in and starting with a new one. Someday, I will be gone. I have hopes and dreams that may take me from the courtyard. I imagine they each too have dreams that don’t include forever in the courtyard. But for now, each of us together, peeking our heads at night with our voices high, “You stepping outside? Just let me get a drink and I’ll be out there.”
“The world is changed.
I feel it in the water.
I feel it in the earth.
I smell it in the air.
Much that once was, is lost.
For none now live who remember it.
And some things that should not have been forgotten, were lost.
History became legend. Legend became myth.” - LOTR
No comments:
Post a Comment