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From The Desk Of Michael Cerveris: Yards

It’s one thing to be a creative quadruple threat (film actor, stage actor, television actor, musician); it’s another thing entirely to excel as a quadruple threat for the better part of 43 years. From multiple Tony nominations—and wins—to starring roles on Fame and Treme, Michael Cerveris may be best known for his versatility as a thespian, but he proves just as formidable behind the mic on his long-awaited sophomore solo album, Piety. His sonic pedigree is unsurprisingly impressive, having shared the stage with the likes of the Breeders, Bob Mould, Teenage Fanclub and Frank Black. Cerveris will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read his MAGNET Feedback.

Yard

Cerveris: I grew up with a mountain hillside for my back yard. It ran down from a short grassy area into a fairly dense wood and into a big, deep gully where nothing but our neighbor’s broken appliances ever seemed to go. These were the same neighbors who used their backyard for archery practice. There was a long stretch, when their kids were just beginning to learn the finer points of bow hunting, that my brother, sister, our family dog and myself were not allowed to play back there. The front yard was a grassy hill from our front door rising up to the driveway with only one or two really large trees, but their seemingly biblical ability to drop leaves in the autumn meant hours of work for us kids under the benevolent dictatorship of my dad. I think those days spent cutting the grass and raking it (no riding mowers or grass catchers for us) and leaves (no leaf blowers either) were when it was first explained to me (by dad, handing me a rake) that suffering builds character. It’s also the origin of consciousness or something. Mostly at the time, it seemed to be the origin of callouses.

Evenings were spent riding bikes to other kids’ yards for other kid games or general hanging out. I don’t remember exactly how we frittered away hour after hour, but I remember that we did. Full-contact pick-up football games with all the neighborhood kids were a highlight and a terror. It being West Virginia, most yards were on a hill and after a couple plays, the grass gave way to mud and the incline added to the general loss of control and calamity and someone usually went home with something broken.

Yards were where the stuff that belonged at home but didn’t fit in the house went. That could mean old appliances, out-of-season sporting goods or old machine parts and cars or it might just as easily mean dogs, kids, rough housing, running, yelling and anything messy. I remember my little brother at about age three, frustrated that my sister and I weren’t including him in playing with a neighborhood friend, chasing said friend around around our back yard wearing only a diaper and wielding a brick over his head. That’s what yards were for.

Now I divide my time between an apartment in a concrete city and a house in the middle of a city, both yard-less. I haven’t had a yard of my own in almost 40 years. And I ache for one every day. Everything has to fit inside or in a basement or in a storage locker. Everything, including me, remains protected from the elements and from breaking a collar bone in an out-of-control tackle. I don’t have any outdoor space that’s mine. I need permission or have to abide by other peoples’ rules in any park or green area I find. I can’t be simultaneously at home and outside.

And where am I supposed to go when I need to chase someone with a brick while wearing a diaper? I mean, I guess I probably can do that in New York or New Orleans, actually. But in the yard, I could do it barefoot.