When I am sitting at my computer, I look through the faux french door back door (only one door opens, the other is decoration. Alas, a stupid design if there ever was one) Today it is filled with the green of beautiful foliage of a rich summer of rain.
The back porch of your life is a place of comfort, away from the prying eyes of the general public. Family may visit there, friends are welcome there, and pets might be permitted. Your backyard is strictly what you make it. If you don’t mow it down, then it’s an overgrown mess with things lurking in the tall grass and shrubbery. If you keep it trimmed and add decoration, then your private little space becomes more of a haven. These decisions are strictly up to you, and no one can force you to do anything.
My back porch contains a grill. I never touch this item, as it designated it to be my husband’s job, and therefore his grill. The back porch in my mind has a fire pit, and a pergola with porch swings and chairs. There are hanging flower pots, and ivy winding along the wood structure. In my mental backyard, there’s a Gazebo, for some reason I’m obsessed with them. My Gazebo stands in a corner of the backyard, thus centering the view into a triangular configuration. It is centerpiece, I think. It boast flower boxes and shade trees near it. It is screened in, with lighting. There is a garden path to it…
::sigh::
That’s as far as I can see right now. Even in the imaginary world, there are decisions to make.
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