15 Steps to Our Backyard Paradise

When my kids were toddlers, our backyard had a large plastic playhouse, sand box, swing set and Slip 'N Slide. The space burst with vivid colors — bright reds, blues, yellows and greens — like giant flowers in a surreal garden.

With my son and daughter older, their toys given to younger cousins, the yard seemed barren, a sea of green grass, save for a large maple picnic table and in-ground basketball hoop. The empty space made me sad. Retirement was on the horizon and I yearned to once again bring our family together on our back lawn. I envisioned playing bocce or setting up a volleyball net in our now spacious yard.

"Mom wants a gazebo for the backyard," my daughter suggested, as Mother's Day approached. "Let's get her one and surprise her!"

"A gazebo?" I said skeptically. I wasn't buying in to the idea.

Besides, I already knew what my wife wanted — milk chocolate nonpareils, her favorite Pinot Grigio, and a huge bouquet of freshly-picked lilacs from the bushes she nurtured near our garden. It was tradition, every year.  

"How much would we use a gazebo?" I asked my daughter.

"Come with me to look," she pleaded. "Mom showed me the exact model she's fallen in love with."

Before I knew it, we were loading the large box into our van.

When Mother's Day arrived, I heard the birds singing outside as the sun rose on a clear, bright day. My son and daughter, 18 and 17, ran into our family room with the question they'd been asking me all week.

"Can we give Mom her present now?" my daughter asked. "Let's wake her up." My son went up to get her.

Bleary eyed, my wife came to see what the commotion was about. We guided her into our mudroom. "Close your eyes, Mom!" my daughter commanded.

My son opened the door to the garage. In the first bay was a large rectangular box that was too big to wrap, covered in a dark brown blanket.

"Is it a piece of exercise equipment?" my wife asked.

"No way," my son said. "Take the blanket off!" As she slowly uncovered the large box, a smile emerged on her face.

She whispered, "I can't believe this," and gave us a tight group hug. "A gazebo! Just what I've been wanting. I love it!" Tears streamed down her cheeks.

We all dragged the heavy box from the garage bay to the back yard and emptied thousands of parts onto the lawn. My kids threw the instruction book to the side and ripped open the dozens of hardware bags, lined up parts of the metal frame, unrolled the canvas top and set to putting it together.

A few hours later we were all sitting under the gazebo, my son and daughter texting their friends and my wife sitting in contentment, reading a paperback, still stunned by her gift.

Over the next several years, our space came alive: birthday parties, anniversaries and jeans and T-shirt get-togethers.

"I'm thinking of majoring in psychology, just like Mom, when I start college this fall," my daughter told me sitting under the gazebo one crisp early morning while we cupped our hands around mugs of steaming coffee. I was thrilled to know she'd chosen a path to help people.

"Dad, I loved our trips to jazz clubs in New York and Boston," my son revealed one afternoon. A jazz drummer at a performing arts high school, he hadn't said much about our trips at the time. I was ecstatic these trips had meant so much to him, that I'd made a difference with his music, and that we'd spent time together.   

Enjoying our sacred space under our gazebo was not attached to any particular time of day. My wife and I celebrated the birds rejoicing at sunrise and the brassy chirping of crickets at dusk.

Four years ago, on Halloween night, the wind lifted our beloved gazebo during a fierce thunderstorm and threw it twenty feet before it crashed into the ground, its frame twisted and canvas torn. This structure was the magnet that had brought us together. My spirit shattered, I worried where we'd now connect.  

The next summer we put two large round tables with patio umbrellas where our gazebo had been. But the spark wasn't there.

The following winter we ordered a new model. Our party canopy was larger, had a strong cedar frame and posts, and a sturdy steel roof. We hired a contractor to install concrete footings and assemble the massive structure. Most importantly, we had the seven-by-seven inch cedar posts bolted to the concrete to keep it anchored.

Now a permanent part of our back yard, we were ready to entertain at home. My wife installed an outdoor carpet, hung tiny white lights along the roof beams and ordered glass tables that would soon hold plates of appetizers and desserts. The magic returned.

When my daughter and her husband moved back to Connecticut from Texas, their first stop after entering the state was our house. I ordered chicken parmesan grinders and packed the cooler with bottles of spring water, flavored seltzer and white wine for our reunion — under the gazebo.

Now our yard had color again — not the bright hues of a children's playscape, but the dazzle of good company. We were making memories and new friends. A woodpecker found a place high on a tree branch, adding to the early morning chorus.

I thought I had Mother's Day figured out. Turns out, my daughter was wiser than me. It took prodding from my kids to make me change, be more adventurous, mix up our gift-giving routine. Now, they take the lead in throwing out ideas.

Before our gazebo, I'd longed for something that I'd had only for a brief period: the sweet sounds of my kids' silly laughter while they ran through sprinklers in their tiny bathing suits and water shoes, armed with super soakers.

Today, I rejoice in something very different, and unexpected — listening to my grown children's laughter while clinking wine glasses, engaging in meaningful conversations and celebrating our new adult relationships.

As my wife and I tread closer toward retirement, our yard has once again found its rhythm.

Stan Gornicz is a writer, husband, and father who lives in Connecticut. His essays have appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post and other publications. He is working on a memoir. Read More