WEATHER: Might rain, might not – hard to say. Chance of sun and/or clouds, temps between -46 and 120℉
TRAFFIC: Bad where you are, also other places. Stay home
HOROSCOPE: Chance favors the prepared. Don’t buy into vague generalities. Reject platitudes and forge your own path. We’ve been over this.
SPORTS: Local major league franchise scores more points than other local franchise. Losing coach: “We should have scored more points.”
EVENTS: Your friend’s band that you have no intention of ever seeing is playing tonight. There’s some kind of loud festival going on this weekend and you won’t be able to park anywhere near the farmer’s market
MARKETS: ₳ 86.7 ㏎ 53.09 ㏄ 2.4 ⅐ 4.6 ㏒ 808 ☈ 10.0 ㎏ 3gd ₤ 902.25 ü 21.12 ฿ AFL1-3603 ℗ 19.84 ℀ x86 ッ3.14159 ℅ 2.718 § .57721 ‱ 4.6692 € 6.66 ₩ 1.618 ⅜ a2+b2=c2 ₭ ¤ ₴ ㎡ 69 ø 420 ⌫ 555 ∄ XIV ⌘ 24/7/365 ə
POLITICS: Holy crap, how does this keep getting worse
SCIENCE: Revolutionary medical breakthrough still ten to twenty years away

They call it a yard, but it’s so much bigger than that


I’m in awe when I look at my yard. It’s many yards across, but it’s so much more.

I mean, I know that the word “yard” when you’re talking about dirt and grass in front of your house means the same thing as “lawn”. Not “yard” as in “three feet”. I know that.

But when you get out there and look at it, I mean really look at it, you start to see what it’s all about.

Someone way back in history called it a yard. I don’t know which came first – the yard as measure of distance, or yard as name for the location for all things croquet. I don’t have the time, or if we’re being real, the interest to look it up right now. Also I have a deadline to get this in before deadline.

Anyway, they called it a yard. And we also have a measure called yard. Lots of yards are measured in yards. Or acres, sure. You get the idea.

Point is that while you can quantify the land space in imperial units, you can’t encapsulate the larger importance of that little patch of fescue. That’s where your baby took its first steps. Where you played catch and spray painted the science project. Where you passed out after your buddies dropped you off at 3 AM.

The psychological import of this bundle of real estate cannot be cast aside, much like Jeff did your motionless body after a night of tequila shots to celebrate his divorce. It’s a cherished centerpiece in our humble suburban lives, exponentially greater in significance than the number of yards that it occupies in length and width. For example, the three yards they left you from your own front door, drooling on the freshly mowed turf where you once served Jeff and his stupid friends sandwiches from your own kitchen.

No, our yards are sacred spaces that transcend appraisal in numeric terms. They play a pivotal role in our lives. Not the kind of pivot a BMW 3 Series Sedan makes in your yard when it’s peeling out after the jackasses in it have dumped you where your retired neighbor Mrs. Cooke will find you at dawn and turn the garden hose on you then call the police instead of helping you get inside like a decent person would do.

My yard, no matter the size, is a respite and refuge from the harsh realities of the world. Like Jeff. You suck, Jeff.

Muligan Stewart

Muligan Stewart

Mulligan types neatly and is punctual. He graduated summa cum dolus from William Gaines School of Journalism. Do not ever touch his stereo.

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