Notes on Nightfall

Earlier, in the summer, my husband had a burst of enthusiasm and did some heavy bush hogging and general clearing on our property.  Once paths were cleared he had the idea to relocate the hunting shed he kept in the back of our property to a closer spot where we could use it as a place to sit and watch deer in real time instead of the once a week images from the game cameras we have scattered around.  He outfitted the former sheep shed with some old carpet scraps and equally old chairs and covered the opening with camouflage netting. As summer waned and fall crept in, astrologically at least, he tilled up the newly cleared pasture and planted it with good things for the deer, and some things for us, to eat.  Our plan was to sit in the shed at dusk and watch them come out to graze. Good plan.

I had the day off today for a medical procedure, and like a good and loyal husband he stayed home with me.  Maybe he felt contractually obligated because he had to sign a paper saying he would keep me from doing anything stupid, like drive myself home.  So, after I slept off the sedation and last night’s leftovers were consumed we figured it was the perfect time, and most likely the last weekday of the season, to go out and sit as we had planned to do so many months ago.

While it was still fully light we settled in our dust covered chairs, and I tried to clear my mind of any spiders lurking in the shadows. Husband had his hiking stick so we were good to go if any venomous snake squatters needed a spike to the head.  We waited quietly and watched as the northwest sky we faced faded from blue to gray to a light shade of coral it clung to until the sky was no longer visible.  We were quiet, nature was not.

If you want to know just how loud nature is, go out in it and be quiet. I’m almost convinced a city street during rush hour may be quieter than the woods at nightfall. The first break of our peace came from an unseen bird who flew squawking from one tree to another with the grace of rhino charging through the bush. It settled on a branch in front of us and began a call and response to its counterpart somewhere in the distance. 

Meanwhile, as acorn bombs ricocheted off the shed’s metal roof a Carolina Wren almost joined us inside.  She did a dramatic about-face when she saw her roost was otherwise occupied.  In retaliation she found a perch behind us and proceeded to lambaste us for trespassing. Before long she stirred up an angry mob and a chorus of pouting wrens surrounded the shed.  I’m sure any deer within earshot was not going near the predator attacking the innocent wrens.  As the light faded so did their grumblings and the night lulled them into slumber.  Ah, peace. No chance. When the birds were finally quiet the frogs, crickets and other night bugs turned up the volume. 

As darkness fell through the trees the new green of the food plot glowed in the fading light.  I watched a bat swooping over it for dinner, and wished it would come in the shed to feast on the mosquitos that were having me for dinner.  I saw a pinprick of light close to greenness and focused on the spot until I saw another.  Fireflies this late in the season? Then I thought I saw something dark and low to the ground run into the path between pastures. Hopefully the cameras picked it up for Saturday viewing. 

When the glow of green became diffused by a fog rising from the creek we called it a day.  Walking back to the house in the cool damp of the mist I was reminded of every Daphne Du Maurier novel I’ve ever read.  Except this is Sumrall, Mississippi, not the moors or craggy cliffs of England.  “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderly again.”, and the rest.  If only the pond was the crashing sea. I digress into my English romance novel-filled youth (sigh).

The deer did not come out on our watch tonight, but I imagine they’re out there now, partying it up and taking turns in the photo-booth.  We’ll have to wait till Saturday to see what we missed when we have our weekly ritual of checking the cameras.

Not a wasted evening by any means. “Be still and know that I am God” He said. Try it sometime, if only for a few minutes. I continue to have trouble hearing His voice, but He fills me with song through creation, grouchy wrens and all.  I did not see, but I listened and heard. 

Summer

Summer. I love it and hate it. There was a time when I couldn’t wait for the days of long light and no responsibility. Long gone are the freedoms of childhood, but maybe one day I can retire and discover some of them again. I remember one summer as a child I determined if I got out of bed by opening my eyes and looking up and out the window.  If the sky was a robin’s egg blue against the green of the pecan tree I would spring out of bed to absorb the day.  If the blue was off a bit or I saw clouds in the way I would roll over to the cool side of the sheets and sleep some more.  My laziness was the product of having both parents at work and two grandmothers who were busy enough they didn’t miss one less child making a mess in the kitchen. 

I lived outdoors in the summer primarily because we didn’t have air conditioning and outside was cooler than inside.  Plus, our Rawls Avenue yard was a virtual summer oasis. Our house sat on two lots so our yard was wide and deep and almost completed shaded by several large trees strategically placed by the Almighty. There had been a huge oak tree outside the back door and the space between the roots of the tree was my playhouse. There was one niche that was my perfect size and it was my car I drove to all points on the globe I knew existed, which at that time was only about a five-mile radius. Hurricane Camille took it and more out in 1969, but despite losing the canopy of the oak we still had enough to protect us from the blistering heat of South Mississippi.

In my mind’s eye the yard was divided into distinct sections. The immediate back yard began with the back steps encompassing Daddy’s shed and Mama’s monkey grass garden and ended at the clothesline (we didn’t have a dryer, either) just behind the pecan tree. This part of the yard was more utilitarian, so there wasn’t much playing there. The cats, or whatever animal we had at the time, ate on a small bricked area so it was always littered with old pie plates in various stages of rust. The rest of this yard was too shady for grass to grow and stayed covered with mulberry tree droppings, which was fine if you didn’t mind having purple feet (who wore shoes?).

Behind the clothesline was a fig tree carpeted with wild, pink oxalis. As I side-note I once watched the Middle-Child cook a bunch of the clover-shaped leaves and eat them. I later learned she did it to put off the advances of a young suitor. At the time, I thought she was a genius with survivor skills when actually it’s a miracle she didn’t poison herself. Beyond the fig tree was a jungle of bamboo and wisteria vines bordered finally by a mysterious, low stone wall. On the other side of the wall was the remnants of an old road or alley. If I could time travel I would go back to see just what it all looked like before the Csazar family called it home. Oh! Maybe the stones are a time portal! I digress, again.

A towering magnolia divided the two lots and on the other side, was the bonus back yard. At the back, on the house side of the walled jungle, there were relics of what have might have once been a garden. It’s here my imagination wandered when my daddy would tell me bedtime stories about fairies and gnomes and the one about the grasshopper and the ants. My daddy was a master story-teller. In line with the magnolia was a Catawba tree covered with caterpillars my Uncle Walter loved for fishing.  Further up were plum, wild cherry, and Japanese magnolia trees, and in between was the only area where the sun would shine the most. This was the site of home movies, a pet cemetery and Daddy’s prized satsuma tree.  In the summer months, the yard bloomed with well-oiled teenage girls in bikinis working on tans they didn’t need because of their natural Mediterranean skin. And it was fine for them to be so scantily clothed because they were safely protected from the wandering eyes of the neighbor boys by a ring of overgrown azalea bushes and other shrubbery my father refused to trim. Head slap! At last, I understand you, Daddy!

The front yard was for socializing. It started with the front steps and was enclosed by a pipe fence useful for sitting and talking with friends and neighbors, or practicing acrobatics and tight-rope walking. It’s where the girls of the house held court and broke hearts or had them broken.  It’s where one could go and sit and think and dream in the cool shade on long, hot summer days.

Yes, a child like me could get lost in a yard like we had. So many nooks and crannies to hide in away from a mother and grandmothers who wanted you to do chores and siblings who mostly ignored you anyway because of the age gap.  But I wasn’t always ignored. There were those summers my closest brother used to play with me before he realized it wasn’t cool to have your baby sister hanging around. My favorite was the summer of the Lawnmower.  It was an old lawn mower, part of Daddy’s hoard, with no engine or blades but perfectly working wheels.  I would sit on the hole and my brother would push me around the neighborhood and up and down the Hills in the empty wooded lot across the street.  I could write a whole book on the wonders and joys of that lot, so I’ll just leave it for now. Did he pull me in the lawnmower behind his bicycle? I don’t remember but I’ll just say yes because it was exciting to me either way.  Then there was the summer he (we) collected cans.  This is before cans were made of aluminum so collecting wasn’t for recycling. He (we) collected cans just for the joy of having a collection of as many different cans as he (we) could find. That summer I learned there were a lot of different beers in the world.

Eventually, I outgrew the desire of wanting to be outside coincidentally about the same time my mother installed an air conditioner and cable in the living room. Suddenly being cool in front of the television with more than two channels was much more inviting than the heat and bug bites of the outdoors. If I needed to get away I would go as far as the swing on the screened front porch and lose track of time to the rhythm of the squeak and clang of the chains as the swing rocked to and fro.  Again, I could write a whole book on the joys of that front porch so I’ll leave it here only to mention there was nothing more magical to me than that front porch on a moonlit summer night. To this day I dream of it in my sleep and waking hours.

When I began my responsible life of job, wife, and mother I lost summer in the jumble of every other season.  The years to me were just hot and cold, and I loathed the hot part.  Last year I began a campaign to reclaim summer.  I force myself to sit outside to eat lunch on workdays and walking for exercise after work even when the temperature holds strong in the ‘90s with high humidity. On weekends, I make myself do something outside even it’s just sitting in the shade on the porch and reading, or like today, writing.  By forcing myself to do these things I’m learning to live with the heat and embrace summer again.  I said live with it, not love it. Maybe my love will grow again when I don’t have to measure my days between weekends and holidays, and I can decide to get out of bed by the color of the sky. Until then, at least I’m trying.

100 Words

On May 31, 1918 a boy was born in Chicago to two Hungarian immigrants, Barbola (Bessie) and Karoly (Charley).  Bessie came to the United States as a servant, Charley in the company of his father.  They left Chicago with their first-born, Louis, and moved to a small farm outside of Sumrall, Mississippi. Louis was the oldest of their five children and when he was 47 years-old he became the father to the youngest of his 7 children - me. In honor of what would be his 100^th birthday, an age I’m sure he would have loved to have lived to see, I have come up with 100 ways to best describe him in my eyes. Some words are contradictory to others in the list, but I think a person can be two things at once and still be their true self. Some words are not very complimentary, but if my daddy was anything it was honest and he would expect me to be the same.  Here it goes in no particular order (deep breath):

American citizen, Hungarian to the core, proud father, husband, uncle, devoted son, giddy grand-father, gentle, loyal, irascible, meek, straight-forward, brave, unassuming, whimsical, God-fearing, crossword-puzzler, sentimental, dependable, obedient, charitable, imaginative, shy, blue-eyed, radiant smile, infectious laugh, austere, tender-hearted, boxer short wearer, humane, gracious, animal-loving, Catholic, hero, medic, reserved, Reservist, generous, penny-pincher, born dirt-poor, grumpy, obstinate, cat god, roof sweeper, never-changing, ice washer, lawn-mower, joke teller, docile, unyielding, trustworthy, dutiful, humble, resigned, quiet, handsome, devoted, patriotic, corny, nostalgic, college-graduate, Veteran of Foreign War, intruder chaser, black sock wearer, private, quirky, determined, sensitive, hoarder, security-guard, thrifty, peculiar, introverted, Knight of Columbus, American Legionnaire, bingo-caller, retired, unretired, cotton picker, Santa, story-teller, poem reciter, silly dancer, proud, healthy, Depression survivor, ear-flipper, head-thumper, treatment giver, obedient, tactless, bo-bo-healer, Easter-egg hider, true-friend, soft-spoken, irritable, blunt, traditionalist, satisfied. Daddy.

Happy 100, Daddy! I’m sure you would be embarrassed to read about yourself and make a fuss, but a little proud just the same.  "Good evening, friends."