My busy summer has drawn to a close, and I look back on the delights I enjoyed these past few months, as well as the summer memories I’ve always held dear. I put the vegetable garden to bed for the winter, and Michael worked near me, cutting back encroaching marsh grass with a scythe. As I watched the tall grass swish to the ground, I was transported to a special place – the backyard where I grew up.

The half-acre of tall grass at the edge of our yard was a magical place where my sister and I hid away from our younger siblings, whispered secrets, giggled and sang. With dolls, blankets and dishes in tow, we trudged up the hill overlooking the house and played for hours while the mechanics of daily living continued nearby. Resting on our bellies in the cool grass, we observed without being observed ourselves. We watched Mom hang laundry or tend the garden while our baby sister cooed in her carriage and our pesky brother rode his tricycle in earnest circles around the yard.

Out of view, Dee Dee and I set up housekeeping, first tending to the preliminary smooshing down of the grass to make rooms, using sticks or string for boundaries. Similar to the little pig who built his house out of straw, we lived for the day, knowing the house we were building wouldn’t last, but there would always be tomorrow to make another one.

We spread blankets and carried toys from the play room, arranging it all to our liking, imagining what it would be like to really live in our roofless grass houses. We stretched out side by side on the matted-down grass to gaze at the blue sky, with the sun warming our freckled skin. We took in the smell of wild pink roses and raspberries that grew in a tumbled mass over a fieldstone foundation. Mom was good at telling the exciting story about the ramshackle barn that had once stood there until the day it caught fire and burned to the ground.

I don’t remember the fire, but I do remember this: the way the grass shimmered with silver light, swaying with wispy, whispering sounds as the summer breeze danced through it and the chirpy, raspy sounds of crickets, locusts and grasshoppers serenading us. I remember putting my ear to the ground, thinking I could hear the beating of the earth’s heart.

There was a small pet cemetery near where we played. A puppy, a few cats, a parakeet or two, and several hamsters were laid to rest there. Dad performed the burials then we decorated the graves with buttercups, clover blossoms and beaded necklaces that had come unstrung. We said closing prayers and sang hymns in a minor key, making up the words as we went along.

At some point during my teenage years, Dad acquired a lawn tractor and mowed the tall grass down. Even though we hadn’t played there in awhile, I felt sad. With the loud roar of a gas-powered engine and the swoop of a shiny blade, a part of my childhood went missing.

The tall grass was replaced by a manicured lawn and a perennial garden bordered with rocks from the dismantled fieldstone foundation. Mom spent hours there on summer evenings, making the garden more stunning over the years. She loved to admire it from the kitchen window. I thought it was very pretty, and it’s not that I didn’t appreciate Mom’s efforts. It’s just that I missed the days of magic and possibility and precious lazy time when the tall silver grass swished on the hillside of my childhood, whispering, “Come play. Come play.”