When I was a  young mom I fantasized about a house with a backyard. I believed that my children would be happier and healthier if they had outdoor space to run wild in, a garden lush with hydrangeas and home grown tomatoes, and a playroom big enough for all their toys and even a ping pong table.

Yes, a ping pong table.

I thought about this last night at my apartment building’s annual fourth of July barbecue.

As usual, Mr. Kravitz set up a make-shift serving table with boards from the basement placed artfully on top of three garbage pails covered by an orange plastic table cloth.

When Mr. Kravitz fired up the grill, neighbors brought wine, beer, and platters of meats, vegetables, and salads downstairs as if on cue and the serving table was filled with a veritable potluck feast

It was a hot night and Mr. Kravitz’s face was turning deep red as he turned an assortment of grilled lamb burgers, Hebrew National hot dogs, turkey burgers and corn on the grill.

By 7PM the front yard was jammed with an enthusiastic group of adults and children from the building and nearby buildings busily eating, drinking and talking.

I have been to so many of these barbecues. Not only have I lost count but they all blur together. The children sort of blur together, too.

In my mind’s eye, I could see a young Teen Spirit and his best friend who moved away standing by the Weber carefully wrapping graham cracker sandwiches of marshmallows and Hershey chocolate in Reynolds Wrap and tossing them into the fire.

In my mind’s eye, I could see OSFO and her best friend standing at the Weber carefully wrapping graham cracker sandwiches of marshmallows and Hershey chocolate in Reynolds Wrap and tossing them into the fire.

Last night I watched the latest generation of young children standing at the Weber carefully wrapping graham cracker sandwiches of marshmallows and Hershey chocolate in Reynolds Wrap and tossing them into the fire.

I  imagined it as a black and white movie—faces and hands dissolving one to the other—symbolizing the passage of time and the continuation of childhood traditions and skills.

During the barbecue Teen Spirit and a friend stopped by. At 19, he looked tall and handsome in a red and white striped shirt and his grandfather’s wing tip shoes.

“Hey, do you want to have something to eat?” I asked Teen Spirit and his friend hopefully.

“No thanks. We just came from a barbecue and are on our way to another,” he said.

Teen Spirit and his friend disappeared into the apartment building. He has a busy and complex social schedule that takes him to other parts of Brooklyn and Manhattan. In August he will leave for college.

I felt a pang. I never gave my son a house with a backyard. This patch of concrete was his yard, his childhood yard…