There’s no better place for morning coffee than my back steps. I cuddle with my dog on the top step enjoying my view, contemplating the day ahead, though sometimes I contemplate nothing. I perch there like an early bird waiting for the worm. A cool fall morning, wrapped in a quilt, hot chocolate in my hand, is one of my favorite times.
Evening time, after-dinner stillness, crickets just starting to sing – definitely back step time. Besides whatever current view might present itself, back steps conjure memories of childhood, past homes, and friend’s houses. In reflective moments I think of my grandfather. He’d sit on his back steps in the evening, smoking curling from his pipe. His casual puffs wafted out fragrances I can still summon. We would sit jean to jean while he cleaned fish for an evening meal, always pan-fried trout. I remember one tie when we poked at ants going back and forth behind our heels along the bottom step. I don’t remember what we talked about then – it was probably about his garden.
On particularly warm evenings I remember back steps in Michigan off a screen-in porch, a humid summer visiting relatives. A bunch of us kids watched fireflies when it got too dark to play ball. We didn’t have back steps at our house in Phoenix, and they were a remarkable architectural feature to me, as much then as now. Those back steps were made of cement, durable and ageless regardless of traffic and weather. My current back steps are wood. Marks and gouges tell of laundry and grocery carrying, the scrapes of the snow shovel, the stain worn away where the gutter drips through a seam during heavy rain.
Sometimes back steps are topped with a door with windows in it, like mine is now. It provides a sneak peak before going out at the weather, sunsets, sunrises, or if neighbors are around. I have seen my dog’s tail waving like a furious flag through my back door window. He’d be straddling those back steps, waiting patiently to come in, all except for that tail. Now my back steps run right into a doggie door and he comes and goes as he pleases, but perhaps I have missed something out the back steps by not being there to let him in and out.
I have tripped up back steps, fallen down back steps, traveled miles across those steps, but back steps are a destination unto themselves. I have waited for phone calls there. I’ve read, dawdled, star gazed, and listened to music cranked up loud from the living room leaning on those stairs. I’ve sat on them planning next year’s garden and pondering my love life. I’ve balanced dinner on my lap sitting out there so I wouldn’t miss a fiery sunset. On sleepless nights I’ve huddled on my steps in the darkness and wished upon a star.
The scenery from the back steps can vary like stairs themselves. Sometimes the view is across fences, through garden gates, at utility poles or the backs of buildings. Sometimes all I’ve seen is a neighbor’s back steps. I have envisioned open meadows, lush woods, tranquil bays and roaring oceans – those steps a threshold to everywhere, influenced by the weather, the season and my limitless imagination. Who would think that staggered risers with 2 x 6s could provide a focal point for major decisions, daydreams and a place in my heart?