The back of my shirt is already soaked from sweat. I was working on the deck sweeping it, washing away evidence of birds dropping small gifts, watering the plants, cleaning the fountain and wiping the table. I’ve stopped to dry off a bit and write then I need to go fill the bird feeders and bring up the projector table and the popcorn machine. Tonight is movie night. The main feature is Casablanca, one of my all time favorite films. We’ll start our viewing with a cliffhanger, Gene Autry and The Phantom Empire.

The day is already far too humid to be comfortable. Once I’ve finished my pre-hosting chores, I’ll shower then sit on the deck and read. I’ll languidly turn the pages, sip my lemonade and eat bon bons.

My neighborhood is quiet this morning. I don’t hear a single lawn mower, unusual for a Saturday. Maybe the whole neighborhood is on their decks turning pages and eating bon bons.

Nobody had decks when I was a kid. The older houses had front porches. A few houses had brick patios, and I always thought they were the rich people. We had a small backyard which we shared with the neighbors so we spent our time on the side lawn where we used to run through the sprinkler then lie on our towels to dry. Two trees sat side by side on that lawn. They were fir trees and not very big. Once, when I went back to see the house, I was surprised to see how tall those trees had grown. They dwarfed the yard.

We knew our neighbors better back then. I knew the names of all the families up and down my street and the streets around. Their kids and I played together, and our parents socialized. They’d sit in the backyard on lawn chairs, have a few drinks and talk and laugh. Nobody needed an invitation. It was bring a chair and sit down. That doesn’t happen anymore.

I love my deck, but it insulates me. I sit on it in the back of my house oblivious to who goes by pushing a carriage or walking a dog. Nobody drops by to visit. Nobody joins me except by invitation. It’s the way of the world now.