Below The Fold

I think I may have discovered paradise this weekend.
It’s in my backyard.
I had my first inkling on Saturday night—As Amy and I whipped up Shrimp and Pineapple skewers, Chicken Skewers and Brisket on my new(ish) gas grill on the porch, as a few friends and family enjoyed beer in the waning afternoon light. Rockwell couldn’t have painted a better portrait—the simple, quiet wonder of an early spring evening.
I was more convinced the next night. After the hustle of the weekend and the associated stresses of entertaining were lifted, Amy and I sat together alone as I whipped up some beer brats on my magical gas grill, a gift from my boss that has quickly become a treasured possession. We really didn’t speak. We just sat, staring out at the yard as it starts to grow.
There’s a tulip coming up in the corner of the yard—it’s a brilliant red, and, while there are other small patches of what appear to be more tulips, this is the only one coming up. The Apple tree is coming back and all the lilac trees seem to be coming back as well.
In the front yard, Amy’s mother planted peonies. They came from her great-grandmother’s yard in Illinois. They broke ground over the weekend and are already a few inches high. 
I find myself absolutely enamored with them. Whenever I go outside, I steal away to see if they’ve climbed any higher…
Last night, we grilled chicken breasts that were light and airy and had perfect texture. Tonight, Amy grilled steaks. They were perfect.
Lately, I find myself in long bouts of reverie, tempered with a subtle joy that seems to emanate directly from the ground beneath me. I’ve fallen in love with this home and my budding little family. Amy sits on the couch and Lulu lies next to her and I watch the two of them just enjoying each other’s company and I begin to see… in snippets and dyed in pale rose shades…how absolutely perfect this life can be. If only for a moment of time stolen between “Scrubs” and “The Office.” Suddenly, it doesn’t matter so much that I haven’t written that novel yet, and I don’t have an office at the Rocky with my name on the door (preferably an oak door, with a frosted glass window that precludes too much curiosity from the news room).
The promise this summer brings is practically brimming with wonder. I simply can’t wait.