The songs of the birds are calling me. I can hear their chorus from inside the house. I’m showered, papered, so to speak, coffeed and ready to be outside. Gracie, smarter than I, is there already. It will be hot today; the paper says 75°. I can think of no better place to be than on the deck. From my window here, I can see a light breeze ruffling the leaves. The umbrella is open and waiting. I’m the only missing piece.

I never knew people with decks or patios when I was kid. We didn’t even have an umbrella for the beach. My friend’s aunt had a pool, and we went there a few times. I was awed. I guessed she must have been really rich. No family had two cars. Only Marty Barrett had been out of the country, and that was because his mother was British. She and his father had met her during the war. My mother was around all the time. Everybody’s mother was. My father worked long days selling tobacco goods wholesale for J. P. Manning. He was seldom home before dark no matter the season. We lived on one side of a duplex. We had really bad neighbors for a while, but then they moved. A firefighter and his family moved in, and they were great neighbors. I used to visit them and was amazed at how their house exactly mirrored ours. We shared a backyard and divided the clotheslines. A family vacation away was a rarity for us as was going out to eat. I remember lots of days at the beach. My mother never learned to swim so she was always sitting on the blanket. My dad was the best swimmer I knew. I loved watching him body surf. He made sure we all learned to swim. Summer days were spent roaming town, exploring the woods or enjoying the playground staffed every summer with two counselors. I made a lot of potholders.

I never felt deprived as a kid. Life was rich and filled-that seemed to be enough back then.