Just another summer night

There’s magic out there. But you have to go grab it.

Perhaps the moon is rising, or maybe it’s the glow of the city that is backlighting the silhouette of the trees that have become so familiar to me. They are taller now, closing in the sky as I look up from my sleeping bag. I used to see the big dipper in the V of the upper meadow, but now my favorite tree is partially hiding it as it majestically points just to the left of the North Star.

How many nights have a slept out here on the deck, I wonder? Not many lately, my aging body surrendering to the pull of my own, familiar mattress. But I feel summer closing and the stir of fall. Pumpkin Spice Lattes are coming, and this clear, magical night promises not to drop below 62 degrees in these parts.

“Don’t miss it,” my spirit whispers.

I get up from my comfy mattress and tiptoe outside, quietly dragging my sleeping bag and pillow, hoping my dogs won’t notice and set up a ruckus. But all is calm, if not bright, out here in the noisy dark. Perhaps they think I am still in bed—the bed that should be mine, but now sleeps four instead of two.

The horizon is light, but the sky overhead is black enough that the Milky Way is coming into focus. Is that Sirius, that bright one? Casper? Pollux? The shapes feel familiar, but I’ve forgotten the names of the constellations and the brightest stars.

I’ve gotten used to the enthusiastic chanting of 1 million crickets, “Lis-ten lis-ten lis-ten lis-ten lis-ten lis-ten,” with not enough space to fit a dash between syllables. There’s always that one, maybe it’s a cicada, that monotones a single shrill note while the others chant, it’s pitch higher, more bell-like. It stops to take a deep breath and shrills again in one amazing, high-volume, minute-long syllable.

A motion catches my eye. Satellite? I think so. They are faint, like specks of dust, but my eye is drawn to the movement. There are many of these wandering stars.

It’s late now, and I have missed the procession of good night tunes of the birds and the flit of first dragonflies, then bats, that familiar procession of sounds my daughter and I used to listen to in the earlier, dusky hours when we would sleep outside. But occasionally I can hear the finale, the soft bark of dogs in the distance. I imagine them barking greetings to their old friends, who can’t seem to hear them until the darkness settles in. “Good night, Ruff!“ “Good night, Benji!“ A parting bark or two, and they stroll home to walk their little circles and settle in with a sigh for sleep.

Lis-ten lis-ten lis-ten lis-ten lis-ten lis-ten.

Another satellite. Another bark.

I remember the nights we slept out here with Laura Lee and young Luke and He Who Farts A Lot, giggling and talking and slowly nodding off as our sleeping bags collected the dew. And that night with our city friends, the Crandalls, who must have felt like sleeping under naked sky was a little risky and dangerous. These are the memories that make you think maybe you were a good mom after all.

A thin layer of clouds softens the edges of the dark night sky. The chanting chanting chanting chanting continues, and there is briefly a quick, high-pitched squeak that I’m hoping is a bat and not a mouse.

It’s hard to sleep, but not because of the noisy forest. It’s the beauty of those tiny pin-pricks of light in the black sky. They keep my eyes open.

A flash catches my attention and I look just quickly enough to see a meteor fizzle out. I feel like I have caught a falling star. Looking for shooting stars is the Easter egg hunt of late August.

How will I ever sleep?

Looking for shooting stars is the Easter egg hunt of late August.

Somewhere in the night Jim brings the puppy out to potty, and Emmy is overjoyed to discover me. She enthusiastically burrows her soft head into my bag, so proud that she has found the holy grail, and leans hard into my chest. I lean back, and mutter sweet nothings into her fur.

In the wee hours the racket grows to a cacophany, waking me briefly to look up again at stars that are now fiercely brilliant. The determined cicada, or whatever it is, screeches out a dramatic, sustained crescendo with all his might, his little cicada neck tendons straining in one final, brilliant effort, and then collapses, spent, into sleep.

The crickets keep their faithful chanting—“lis-ten lis-ten lis-ten lis-ten”--but softer now.

I nestle down into the familiar comfort of my old, stinky sleeping bag, and dangle a foot out to cool me just enough to make the warmth feel good. When I awake for several more peeks at the stars as dawn approaches, the chanting is softer each time. Morning is nearly here.

And then, my alarm.

Back inside in my favorite chair, I’m still smiling as I write, trying to hold onto one last slice of summer. The dogs, fed, are quiet now, except for the puppy, who squeaks her pink elephant contentedly. At last check only the two most stalwart crickets were still chanting outside, and they sounded tired. Perhaps they are proud to have won some sort of cricket creaking contest. They are probably sleeping it off right now, giving space for the birds to begin their morning choir practice.

My old back aches a little more than usual. But it’s a good trade for the wonder and peace I feel.

I check my email. Pumpkin Spice Lattes start today.