Myrtle Grove wannabe, otherwise known as The Backyard.

I always wanted to live in a house with a name.

I think it started at Pacific Middle School on Okinawa when I first read Gone With the Wind and fell in love with Scarlett O'Hara and her home, Tara. Down the road was Twelve Oaks and I guess I started thinking all homes had names.

Precious, chubby, squishy legs.

The other day, Sweet Adeline and I were swinging in the backyard as we like to do.

We were chatting about the crepe myrtles along our fence line that are in full, glorious bloom. The secret to their beauty, I believe, has been in never, ever topping them off. I think Southern Living magazine calls it "crepe murder" and has written extensively about the horror of doing this to your innocent crepe myrtles.

This. Don't. Ever. Do. This.

And, if you don't do that, then this is how they reward you...with graceful, arcing beauty.

The blooms are a lovely treat, but to me just standing under them and looking up is the best thing. I think I'm in a sculpture garden and even in the winter I admire their bark and branches.

Oh look. I have an affinity for wind chimes. They make the beauty of the trees even more rewarding with their heavenly bell choir sound.

So, if a house on less than an acre lot in a small Southern town could have a name without sounding pretentious (and I don't really think that's possible), ours might be Myrtle Grove. Until then, we'll call it The Backyard.