I have a neighbor and he is in his 90’s. Let’s call him Mr. Jones. He is a really nice and interesting man. He lives alone and I don’t see him out and about much other than his daily walk to the mailbox. We talked a few times but, on the whole, I don’t know that much about him.

But I do notice how regularly he has his yard maintained. (Mostly because mine usually lags behind) He seems to like his yard to be really well looked after.

Mr. Jones’ backyard is a large expanse of Bermuda grass surrounded by tall and aged Oak trees. If storms knock down limbs or water isn’t draining away or the leaves begin to fall he has someone come and fix those things right away. He keeps things looking good. I’ve had the passing thought that it seems like a lot of work for something I rarely see anyone using. 

One of our impromptu mailbox talks led to a conversation about his backyard and how central it was as a gathering place for the teens in a church youth group many years ago. The weekly games of two hand touch football were a big deal in the neighborhood. I could tell that he held some really great memories of the time spent in that backyard. 

Today I heard some voices and laughter from my neighbor’s backyard and I looked over to see a mother and two young children running in the backyard and playing. A little later the dad joined in the fun. Then my neighbor’s son, which would be the toddler’s grandfather, made a few laps around the yard. Four generations of family with a shared memory of laughing with each other in that backyard. 

I thought about how Mr. Jones kept that backyard in top shape probably just for a few chance encounters. For days like today. He holds that space open.

I think of my Great Grandmother who had cable TV because we might want to watch it and bought cheese and Pringles chips because we liked to eat them. I think of my Grandmother who made sure our Christmases were special. My dad who keeps up a pool mostly because the grandkids swim in it and my mom who keeps a farm of animals that she should probably winnow down but because the grandkids like them… 

They were/are all holding a space.

That, to me, is our humanity. Our ability to love the next generation and give them a gift of memories they will open years down the road. Somewhere between receiving and giving is when we discover that the gift even exists.

I get caught up in the stories of the week and my chase for success in a hundred different forms. I forget that I am on the clock. I enjoyed seeing Mr. Jones and his family living in the middle of a moment. It reminds me that while you can’t demand memories be made, you can hold a space open for them and sooner or later they will come along. 

If you enjoy a nice and pure moment, this post is for you. You’re welcome. This is a crazy season for the world in general. Hold open some peaceful spaces.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.