The air was thick with the scent of a fast approaching Michigan summer — stifling humidity mixed with the sweetness of fresh-cut grass and the oily pungency from a neighbor’s fresh sealcoating.

My parents had offered to watch the kids at their home so that Alison and I could have an evening out together. Before we left I joined the boys outside to horse around for a few minutes. They had found an old basketball, and, as I stepped onto my boyhood home court, where my brothers and I spent a large part of our childhood, I was unexpectedly and immediately overwhelmed with a feeling of being home again.

The large crab trees that hugged the right side of the court were in full bloom, a dazzling, fragrant array of pink and red, a far cry from years ago when they were sickly and crawling with colonies of defoliating tent worms. Until Mom had Dad spray them for our sake, the trees and their worms made for one of the most intimidating sidelines in all of sports.

The brick wall along the left hand side of the court used to double as both my backstop and pitcher during baseball season, but only in the rare cases when Mom wasn’t available. Otherwise she’d be down in the street with me, lobbing in pitches, dodging line drives, and tirelessly chasing them back down again. Repeated over and over until I — not she — was too tired to continue.

Along the brick wall in a large raised wooden box was one of Mom’s many flower beds, from May until September filled with a colorful array of impatiens, geraniums, and begonias. My brothers and I tried hard to keep the ball out of there, but not hard enough. She never yelled at us, but we could read the disappointment on her face when she discovered a telltale, ball-sized crater.

Now, 20 years later, a forensics expert could likely still find plenty of DNA evidence of our games embedded in the iron backboard support pole — strands of hair, flecks of blood and bite marks.

And I suspect that, as the youngest sibling, much of it would be mine. In the case of anything more serious than a bump or scrape Mom was always timely with bandages and affection.

To clear more space for my boys, I backed my van down the driveway, beyond the now-several-times-paved-over three-point line where Mom’s Country Squire wagon was routinely parked. It was known for both its exceptional cargo space and exceptionally angular chrome bumpers.

During play we did our best to stay clear, including when Mom came home with a load of groceries. Seeing us absorbed in games, she rarely asked for our help, and sadly, we rarely went out of our way to offer.

Shade covered the concrete step alongside the laundry room screen door that, years ago, served faithfully as our bench. That’s where Mom, always sensing the need before we did, would lovingly place the jugs of cold water and lemonade to quench our thirst, and, as we became older and the need increasingly arose, the towels to mop up our sweat.

Even with all the comforts delivered literally to our doorstep, my brothers and I still tracked our dirty, sweaty bodies through the house, carelessly soiling the fancy towels so lovingly arranged in the powder room by Mom. Yet she never got angry.

In winter she would run the clothes dryer — even when I suspect she didn’t need to — so we could warm our hands over the exterior vent next to the bench. If my kids asked to use my laptop as a nightlight I would probably decline, but Mom never did, thereby bringing new meaning to the term “bench warmer.”

I don’t recall Mom taking too many shots on the court, but she would regularly appear at the screen door to cheer a nice pass and wince when play got too rough for her liking. From that same screen door she called us in for her famous homemade dinners. And for church.

“Come in and wash up,” she would say. “It’s time for Mass.”

No matter where we were — on vacation in the vastness of Grand Canyon country or the tiniest ski town in Quebec — Mom made sure we went to Mass. And while Dad dropped us off in front and then spent ten minutes “looking for a spot,” Mom led the charge up the steps and into the pew. We never missed a single week.

I excused myself from the game with the boys to briefly rest on the bench. My once-pressed blue dress shirt was now untucked and wet with perspiration, my khakis pocked by large, pebbled basketball blemishes, and my once-polished dress shoes now thoroughly scuffed. I felt like a kid again.

Out of nowhere, like an angel, Mom appeared at the screen door behind me.

“Come in and wash up,” she said in a familiar, gentle tone, handing me a glass of ice water. “It’s time for you to go.”

She hasn’t changed a bit. Timeless and warm, just like my memories of that old basketball court.

Dad worked hard to provide a home and Mom worked just as hard to make it one, filling it with love, patience, and unselfishness. And, though we didn't appreciate it enough at the time, that love extended beyond the walls of our home and onto the court outside.

Our home court.

Paul Fredenberg lives in Ann Arbor with his wife and seven children. He can be reached at psfredenberg@gmail.com.