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Back Porch
9
The Gift
by Connie Jordan
There, just past the mist, it was half hidden down at the end or the curve. The house did not have much to recommend it; just two windows and a plain door. The aged shingles and slate roof testified of times long past. A smattering of grass passed as the front lawn. There were a few overgrown shrubs, a couple of trees and one glorious bush with blue-green branches that swirled with riotous abandon to create a free-spirited sculpture of nature.
Blaze’s tail disappeared down the pathway around the house, and we followed. Rounding the comer, “Ahhh! Dan, look!” My breath caught in my through as I looked, and there it was: the back yard. This great rolling yard looked more like a meadow or a park. Blaze took one look and took off running and exploring to his heart’s content. This place was for us with such a yard and such a bush.
Surrounding that great concourse were houses, duplexes and apartments—all full of students like us. Over time, that back yard became a playground for everyone, meeting every taste: weight-lifting, snowmen and vegetable gardens, baseball picnics and Frisbee tossing.
Since Blaze thought he was human, it was only natural that he be included in all games of catch or Frisbee. He could make some incredible leaps, twisting and somersaulting, always catching whatever was thrown. It was not unusual for some college kid to knock on my back door to ask, “Can Blaze come out and play?” It was more Blaze than anyone else that brought us all together.
We were all settling into the routines of our lives when the flower children moved in next door. You know, Hippies. Or just plain party animals.
The neighborhood raised a collective brow and said, “Eh, Hippies? Oooo-kay?!”
There was a constant flow of people living in the “hippie house.” At most, seven or eight, but three were permanent residents. Two He’s and a She. She was married to the long drink of water with striped blue britches that were forevermore hitched below his belly button. She was a good soul with her shape as wide as her heart. She usually wore sarongs made of bedspreads, table cloths, or an occasional brightly patterned curtain.
Shortly after they moved in, we knew we were in for a roller coaster ride as we watched them string lights and tie enormous speakers to the trees. In self-defense, we installed a large window air conditioner and a strategically placed old fan. That fan created an atmosphere of wind and sound with its roaring drone that was guaranteed to drown out any outside noise, and we slept like babes.
I was on my front porch when the hippies started carrying their furniture
out to the front yard. I called to them and asked, “Are ya moving?” They yelled back, “Nope, just cleaning house.” About that time a dump truck pulled up and started backing up to their front door. I laughed as six or seven hippies began shoveling garbage and beer cans into the truck. I settled back in my chair and watched.
Finally, the place was empty and it was time to get down to some real heavy-duty cleaning. Off went the power, out came the hose and broom, and away they went. They hosed out the insides of their house and swept the water outside. I nearly fell out of my chair laughing, and they were laughing, too! The whole neighborhood turned out to watch the house cleaning.
That first year, I believe we were the only ones who did not complain about the hippies. Their beer keg parties were legendary. The music could be heard by town-people two miles down the road. Motorcycle wheelies and races across lawns and driveways caused considerable comment. We appeared to be the only
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