A Perfect Evening

Copyright © 2018

By Ralph F. Couey

It was our last night in Denver, the inevitable closing of one set of doors.  Earlier in the day we had flown in from Maryland after tending to some grandparent duties with the East Coast branch of the family.  We were in the home of our youngest daughter, Jamie, having spent most of the afternoon and evening culling through the eight suitcases that constituted most of what we still owned in the world that was still mobile.  We had Chinese take-out, my favorite cuisine and were sitting around, just talking.  Cheryl was getting some tech help from Jamie when Jamie asked me to take her dog, Neil, out for a walk.  Having spent much of the previous three weeks NOT walking, I eagerly assented.  Clicking the leash onto the collar of a happy Neil, we headed out. 

It had been a beautiful day, and the air as we stepped off the porch was delightfully cool and crisp, a welcome change after swampy Maryland.  It was a reminder that fall was approaching, and I was feeling a little disappointed that I would not be around to see, hear, and feel what has always been my favorite season.  The sun had gone already, but the sky still held the vestiges of its dying rays.  Summer skies are different, in that during winter, when the sun goes away, the night moves in rapidly, the blackness taking quick possession.  But during the summer, sunset begins a longer transition.  The bright blue gives way slowly to a darker shade eventually becoming a soft purple.  As the color deepens, the stars and planets begin to appear, one by one, as if they were reluctant to share the stage with each other, the pinpoints of light begin to shine. 

This long, purple twilight has a purpose for summer days are hard to release.  There is so much life in that season, not just in nature, but in each other.  Children play in the gathering dusk until their mothers judge that the day is over, and they must return inside.  Accompanying the delicate end of the day, in the trees, grass, and bushes, crickets begin to chirp.  Like the stars, it begins individually, one here, one there.  Then the entire choir joins the chorus. 

For me, there is something soothing and peaceful in that sound.  It is one that opens the floodgates of memory.

When I was very young, we would go to Sunday night church at an outdoor tabernacle.  There were some wooden park benches, but we would usually bring lawn chairs and a blanket.  Of course, the sermon being utterly meaningless to my young ears, I would grow restless, even stretched out on the blanket.  My mother would gather me onto her lap and whisper in my ear, “Listen to the crickets sing!”  Hearing that sound today, I can almost feel her arms wrapped around me.  After church, we would return home where I would be laid in between cool sheets.  This was before we had air conditioning, so my window would be opened and to the chorus of those rhythmic chirps, I would slide away to my slumbers.

There were the Scouting overnight camps and after dinner and cleanup, we would gather around the campfire for song and stories.  Then we would slide into our sleeping bags and once again, in the company of my friends, the crickets would sing me to sleep. 

On warm summer evenings, when the heat and humidity had reached tolerability, Dad would pile us into the car and we would be taken to the nearby Dog n’ Suds for that most wonderful of summertime treats, the root beer soda, or Brown Cow.  It was a treat; cold sweetness in a frosted glass mug that chased away the heat for a time.  Once finished, now feeling comfortable chilled, we would go back home.  In those halcyon days before seat belts, I would be hanging out of the side window catching whatever humid breeze I could.  While moving, I would listen to the sounds of the tires on the pavement, not only from our car but from those that occasionally passed us going the other direction.  At the red lights, those sounds would fade to the point where I could hear the clicks from the big yellow box that controlled the signal lights.  And beyond that, the comforting and familiar sound of the crickets. 

A lot was gained in the advent of air conditioning, both in the house and car with regards to comfort.  But I can’t help but feel that something else was lost, something important.  To listen to the sounds of the earth, the world around us is to be connected to those things that despite all that happens, somehow never change.  The sound of the wind in the trees, and the sound of rain falling move us into a quieter, more contemplative way of being.  It is a time that fosters deep and profound thoughts, or perhaps no thoughts at all.  A space and moment is created for us to just simply be.

The thoughts and memories gently flow through my mind and heart as Neil and I walked along. It was peaceful.  I could hear the sounds of children playing in back yards, stretching every moment out of the long, purple twilight.  I hear voices behind me and a father and son pass me on bicycles.  The boy is talking a mile a minute about school, Dad contributing an occasional monosyllabic response when he could get it in edgewise.  As they pass, I see the Dad regarding his son with a warm and gentle smile, and I realize I am present at the creation of sweet memory.

It is a neighborhood of older homes, which means lots of front porches.  Long ago, the front porch was a place of retreat from a house still venting the heat of the day.  As some neighbors would pass by on their evening strolls, greetings would be exchanged, perhaps a short conversation might ensue.  Kids would play in the yard, or just relax on the stoop.  Neighbors got to know each other, and became friends.  It was a sense of community; you knew your neighborhood, not as a collection of houses, but as a community of families.  People felt safe because everybody looked out for each other, knowing when things were good, and those other times when someone needed help.

Those times have been lost to us, taken by the comfort of air conditioning and the easy entertainment of cable and satellite TV, and the Internet.  I’ve always wanted a house with a big, welcoming front porch, a place where I could pass the evening in contemplation and communication.  But nobody builds them anymore.  Yes, we now have decks in the back yard, but that space between the front porch and sidewalk was neutral ground, where anyone could come and share.  In the back yard, that's trespassing.

It’s really hard to build a sense of neighborliness and community from behind the barrier of a tall, wood fence. 

On this night, I can see into the lit rooms as I pass, rooms dominated by the bluish glow of a television screen.  On such a crisp night as this, the porches and sidewalks should be full of people sharing, talking, laughing.  What should be a noisy, joyful community is naught but silent streets.

As Neil and I make the last turn and head for home, we pass a young couple, holding hands.  We exchange murmurs about what a perfect evening this has been for a walk.

But it has been something else as well, a sweet stroll along the sidewalks of my memories.