Summer Twilight

It's a hot summer evening, the kind that comes as a welcome reprieve after a long sweltering day.  The shadows fall long and fast over these foothills, casting a transparent kind of darkness upon all they touch.  They make the yellowing grass look greener, for everything over which their merciful shade is cast takes on a posture of humble gratitude.  It's the kind of evening we greet with gladness, because even when we woke in the morning, we felt the heat's strangle-hold on our lungs.

A cloud or two has popped up along the horizon, just where our bluish mountains touch the sky.  It's probably raining over there, but the showers will wear themselves out before they reach us down here on the little hills that roll on forever, between us and that great blue wall.  A few claps of thunder try to threaten us, but they're too far away to even get our attention.

It's the perfect time for porch sitting.  With our feet propped up just so, we lean back and listen as the day melts into summer night.  A far off bird's frantic holler gives way to the rhythmic song of a Whippoorwill, crickets start to chime in, then the tree frogs and katydids.  By the time night falls and the grass is soaked with big heavy drops of dew, there's a virtual orchestra of night-sounds filling the air.

There's nothing quite so comforting as an evening breeze, still laden with the humid heat of the day.  It blows across your sweaty skin like a whisper, inviting you to relax, take a load off, maybe hum a little tune.  Even dogs know the sacredness of Southern summer twilight.  They lie at our feet like little furry footstools, hoping we'll  run our bare toes along their backs, rub their bellies and tell them what good boys they are.  Of course, they've done nothing for such praise; nothing more than walk beside us all through the day, tongues lopping out of their mouths, their tails fanning frantically as if to cool the air around them.

Eventually, we'll settle in for the night, but not until we've watched the color-show over the mountains, the clouds rolling by, the sky changing from blue to azure, to violet.  Somewhere in there, we'll see a pink streak or an orange glow before the sun finally falls behind the Earth.  It is Westward bound, and we are nearly ready to turn on the porch light so we can sit awhile longer with the world transforming all around us.

Have you ever walked barefoot in the grass after dark on a summer night?  It's so cool you almost forget that just a few hours ago, it would have burned your feet in the summer sun.  It's about that time, when the grass is cool and damp, that the fireflies start to blink.  It's a whole other spectacle, one that's reserved for those who persevere past sunset just to catch a glimpse of the blinking, glowing, buzzing little show-offs.  You can try to catch them but they don't blink nearly so much at your bedside in a Mason jar as they do in the cool evening air.  It's better, indeed, to watch them perform upon their stage and stare in awe from your front porch chair.

The petunias give off an especially sweet smell at night.  The darkest, most velvety purple they are, so dark they disappear under the night sky, but they remind us of their presence.  There's nothing that smells quite the same.  They mingle with the smells of damp earth and sweaty skin, the smell of a citronella candle that just nearly keeps the mosquitos at bay.  We slap ourselves on our legs and shoulders and curse at the pests, but we do not let them chase us away.  We know that tomorrow it's  going to itch like hell, but this night is something to see, despite a little bit of pain.

Out in the woods, we can hear sticks cracking underfoot.  We spin great tales of bears and deer, of coons and possums tromping across the forest floor in search of some treasure only to be had when all the humans are fast asleep.  An owl hoots at us from somewhere up in the trees, a warning for some small creature to run and hide.

Oh, of course there's the rumble of a distant car, someone driving home past dark.  We always wonder, but never aloud, why anyone would be out past nightfall.  We all live such different lives.  We sit at different dinner tables, eat different kinds of home-cooked meals.  We all talk about our lives as if they are the only lives being lived; but the soft swoosh of a car driving by, windows down at night, reminds us that the world reaches far past our front porch steps.  We know that out there in that same night, there is sorrow and suffering, need and want.  We know there is joy and peace where we are, and we will that same peace to fall upon the porches of our neighbors and friends as well.

We turn our thoughts from turmoil and strife and save those things for tomorrow.  Then, as the sun rises over our houses and we wake up, rubbing our sleepy eyes into the day, we will be on our way; back out there in that world that tries to melt us down to nothing.  We'll lend a hand or offer an ear.   We'll share a smile, a peck of beans or a pint of berries.  We'll cut our cantaloupe at dinner time, and eat it with biscuits and fried chicken, just after we fold our hands and declare our gratefulness for what the Earth has provided. Mamas will hang their linens on the line and younguns will squeal with delight, splashing in their wading pools or chasing one another with the hose-pipe.  Tomorrow, the heat and the sun will wring us out again, but we can make it through another day.  As long as we know the front porch sits and waits for our return, and the long tall shadows fall once again over the parched ground at our feet, we can make it through anything.