On a Clear Night
Page 1
On a Clear Night
On a Clear Night
Essays from the Heartland
Marnie O. Mamminga
WISCONSIN HISTORICAL SOCIETY PRESS
Published by the Wisconsin Historical Society Press Publishers since 1855
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© 2017 by Marnie O. Mamminga
E-book edition 2017
Versions of these essays have previously appeared in the Chicago Tribune, Chicago Tribune Magazine, The Christian Science Monitor, Daily Herald, Detroit Free Press Magazine, Lake Superior Magazine, Midwest Prairie Review, Reader’s Digest, and several Chicken Soup for the Soul books.
For permission to reuse material from On a Clear Night: Essays from the Heartland (ISBN: 978-0-87020-824-9; e-book ISBN 978-0-87020-825-6), please access www.copyright.com or contact the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc. (CCC), 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, 978-750-8400. CCC is a not-for-profit organization that provides licenses and registration for a variety of users.
Cover design by Andrew J. Brozyna, AJB Design
Typesetting by Diana Boger
Cover photo: As Night Slowly Fades Away by Matthew Crowley
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Mamminga, Marnie O., author.
Title: On a clear night : essays from the heartland / Marnie O. Mamminga.
Description: [Madison] : Wisconsin Historical Society Press, [2017]
Identifiers: LCCN 2016047368 (print) | LCCN 2016058488 (e-book) | ISBN 9780870208249 (paperback) | ISBN 9780870208256 (e-book) | ISBN 9780870208256 (E-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Mamminga, Marnie O. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY /
Personal Memoirs.
Classification: LCC PS3613.A5266 A6 2017 (print) | LCC PS3613.A5266 (e-book) | DDC 814/.6 [B] —dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016047368
For Lily, Amber, Joy, Elena, Ryan, Alice, and those to come . . . may your journeys be lit by the brightest stars in the Milky Way.
Contents
Preface
OH, YOUTH!
Marching Away
Climbing into the Ring
Going to the Dance
Driving Lessons
Waiting Up
Road Shows Remembered
Back to School Blues
The Sound of Peace
Listen To What I Hear
Comes an Echo on the Breeze
Changing Course
FOREVER FRIENDS
Still Afloat at Fifty
Synchronized Heartbeats
No Place to Run
Shuffle and Deal
Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight
Old Friends
Comfort and Joy
Windy Day Wreckage
BLEST BE THE TIES THAT BIND
Dance Lessons
Mission Impossible
Language of Love
Making of a Mother-in-Law
Christmas Windows
Partings Well Made
Moving Muriel
Barn Wood Harvest
In Waiting
Becoming a Grandmother
LEARNING CURVES
Rip Van Winkle Returns to School
Technology Aversion
Washed-Up Dishwasher
Cubby Bear Bliss
Sailing Away
Leap of Faith
Child-Rearing Changes
Owners Manual
Downward Dogs
Cross-Country Skiing
Bum Knee
GRATEFUL HEARTS
Christmas Rose
Giving Thanks
Swinging along the Open Road
Dancing with Vera
You’ve Got Mail
Heaven in a Wildflower
In Search of a Silver Lining
Looking for Rainbows
UNDER THE MILKY WAY
Midnight Crossing
Recycled Dump Days
Birdsong
Child of Nature
Willie the Wolf and Other Wildlife
Loon Ranger
Night Skies Beckon
Listening for Wolves
Swimming across Big Water
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Preface
An evening star. A pale pink dusk.
Fireflies wing their way through the gloaming, the rhythmic flash of their golden lights inviting us to step out into the night. It promises to be a clear one.
And so we do.
Often, in the quiet of that gathering twilight, the moments of the day that brought us joy or sorrow or laughter begin to take on more significance.
Sometimes a deeper understanding of our day’s experiences greets us boldly, like a full silver moon sliding up over a field or forest. Sometimes knowledge comes to us in smaller bursts, like the scattered flashes of fireflies. But most often, our awareness starts with just a stirring in the heart, like blossoming starlight.
For even though we were not seeking those moments, had not planned or anticipated them, they reflect who we are, where we’ve been, and, most importantly, what we were thinking. Pausing to ponder, we discover that those seemingly ordinary experiences often transcend into moments of unexpected grace.
My hope in writing these essays is that the light created when we share our similar everyday moments might dispel the shadows, illuminate our paths, and remind us that we are not alone, that we do not walk in darkness.
Come, let us look to the starlight together.
Oh, Youth!
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
—KAHLIL GIBRAN
Marching Away
The day has a perfect pitch to it. Warm autumn light filters through treetops, back-dropped by a brilliant blue sky. Along Main Street, the distant rattles of drums and tuning horns are accented by a cacophony of conversation and laughter. Today is the annual high school homecoming parade.
All is about to begin.
Waiting for the shrill blast of the police siren to start the parade, I stand on a curb and watch the others gathered for the afternoon’s festivities. Proud parents, local businesspeople escaping from work, grandparents in lawn chairs, and young mothers surrounded by small children line the parade route in eager anticipation.
“When’s it going to start, Mama?” my five-year-old son asks impatiently.
“Soon,” I reply. “Here, let’s see how many red leaves we can find while we wait.”
My two-year-old joins the search while the baby watches his brothers intently from his stroller.
I watch my three sons’ sweet faces alight with eagerness. In a few short minutes, the football team will be rolling by in hay-wagon chariots, tossing candy as they go; shiny red fire engines will blast their sirens; and elaborate crepe paper floats filled with waving teenagers will cruise past.
Most fun of all will be the thrilling sound of the band. Colorful uniforms, flashy instruments, and joyful music will march toward us in one big mass.
“I hear them!” my oldest shouts.
“Here they come!” his little brother yells.
Squealing with laughter, they lean out over the precipice of their street-corner curb for a better look. Even the baby strains his little face to the sound
of the approaching music.
In the distance, we hear the first snappy sounds of a Sousa beat. Muffled at first, the clear notes of the trumpets, steady cadence of the drums, and brash power of the trombones begin to emerge.
All of a sudden, the band is upon us. Leaping back to the safety of our curb, we watch as a blur of color and harmony sweeps by. Clear clarinets, high-pitched piccolos, and booming tubas pepper their notes into the air. Sailing by in their synchronized steps, the musicians flow steadily forward, sending their music aloft to dance in the autumn breeze.
We clap and clap with excitement. Then, just as suddenly as they appeared, they are gone. We watch with some sadness as they march on down the street, wishing the brief moment of their music could have lasted a little longer.
Twelve years later, the day has a perfect pitch to it once again. Warm autumn light filters through treetops back-dropped by a brilliant blue sky. Today is the annual high school homecoming parade. The shrill blast of a siren wakes me from my reverie. The parade is starting!
Today, I stand alone on the corner. I check my video camera to make sure all is set. In the distance, I can hear the muffled sound of mingling instruments and drums. My heart begins to pound with excitement.
Waving red and gold flags suddenly appear, mirage-like, on the street’s horizon. The notes of a familiar Sousa march begin to emerge.
Here comes the band!
Through the twirling flags, I spot the crisp white uniform of the senior drum major: my oldest son. Head held high, marching with smooth precision, he leads the band confidently down the street. Spotting me on the sidelines, he smiles brightly. I wave back, trying to hold the camera steady. Too soon, he is past.
Quickly I search for my middle son playing a trumpet in the fast clip of moving lines.
“Don’t let me miss him,” I pray, as they march steadily along.
There he is! Smack dab in the middle of the band, concentrating on the trumpet melody, he struts his freshman independence by wearing his golf uniform to show that musicians can be athletes, too. My camera lens catches him briefly as his line files by.
Spinning around, I see my youngest son’s middle-school band approaching. I dash across the street for a better angle, just in time to catch him in the center of the front row. Music memorized, cavalier hat at a jaunty angle, his eyes twinkling, he proudly plies the slide of his trombone for the first time in a parade. For a second, he passes before the camera lens before he too moves out of view.
Not wanting the moment to end, I run clumsily down the street, video camera in hand, dodging spectators while trying to get another glimpse of them in their striding grace. But the marchers move too fast, and I cannot keep up.
Finally, I stop and catch my breath on a hilltop street corner. The flowing current of red-coated musicians marches down the hill toward the sparkling river that meanders through our town. The late afternoon sun flashes against their brassy instruments. Standing still, I listen as the echoing pulse of the band’s song drifts sweetly away from me.
It is magical, this youthful music. Full of promise and hope, it fills the afternoon air with energy and beauty. The pull to follow is strong, but I hold back and let them go. In the dreamlike haze of the warm autumn light, I turn and head home, the gentle cadence of their music fading to a whisper.
Climbing into the Ring
“Who’s better?” I asked my new husband of several weeks, “Cassius Clay or Muhammad Ali?”
He looked at me in wide-eyed terror. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?
I shook my head meekly, wondering what was so wrong with my question.
“They’re the same person!” he laughed, burying his head back into the sports page.
As a young bride, I was trying to acclimate myself to my husband’s world of sports. Although my father and two brothers enjoyed sports, their interest was nothing compared with my husband’s obsession. He watched all the games, knew all the statistics, analyzed all the coaches, and listened to all the sports talk shows on the radio. And he tried his best to draw me into his sporting world.
“Watch this replay!” he would shout from the TV room.
Dropping what I was doing, I’d dash through the house to catch sight of yet another spectacular catch, block, putt, run, or leap. Though I could recognize it as great stuff, the action didn’t grab my attention like a good book, a long walk, stars on a clear night, or a beautiful piece of art on a museum wall.
Even when I joined my husband on an occasional sports outing, I found myself paying more attention to the people than the score, the cool breeze than the play, the peanuts than the pop-up.
As our marriage moved through the game plan of life, we had three sons. Unwittingly, I had produced the perfect team for a pickup game: pitcher, catcher, and batter. While my friends with daughters got all dolled up for outings of lunch and shopping, I threw on jeans for hours of fielding, refereeing, and yelling “RUN! You can make it!”
“Aren’t you just a little bit disappointed you don’t have a girl?” friends often asked.
“Not at all,” I answered truthfully.
“Well, there’s a special place in heaven for mothers of three boys,” they replied, quoting from a popular parenting guide.
Pity is not part of my playbook.
As each son grew and took his section of the sports page at the breakfast table, I refused to sit on the sidelines. So what if I didn’t have long hair to braid, sweet dresses to iron, or ballet shoes to polish? I wasn’t going to be left in the dugout. I could be the ball girl or I could step up to bat.
In short order, I became one of the boys. I pitched. I putted. I fished. And a whole new world opened up to me. Activities I never would have chosen turned into wondrous adventures.
As pitcher for the neighborhood pickup game, I discovered the joy of watching a well-hit ball soar off a bat and into the sky, as well as the earthy smell of trampled grass on a hot summer’s afternoon.
As chauffeur to the putting green, I marveled at the precision needed to nail a four-foot putt, as well as the birdsong that serenaded us from a nearby oak tree.
As threader of the worms, I experienced the excitement of a fish tugging on my line, as well as the shade-shifting brilliance of a setting sun.
Just about the time I grew accustomed to these activities, my boys moved into their teenage years, and I found my middle-aged self thrown into a whole new realm of challenges. Because I was often involved in transporting the guys, I decided there was no point in just sitting and waiting for them to finish. Against my better judgment, I joined in the action.
I spent hours on an overcast day climbing up a forty-foot pine tree, swinging from a rope, and yelling “Tarzan!” before plunging into the cold waters of a Northwoods lake.
I rode the fastest, steepest roller coasters at a theme park, screaming my head off, amazed that I allowed my body to be put in such a precarious situation.
I attended years of baseball conventions, running with a mob of fans for autographs of players I didn’t even know. (I can beg with the “best of ’em”.)
I found myself at the top of a snow-covered mountain peak—a novice skier on too steep a slope—simply because my sons knew I would like the view.
“Go for it, Mom!” they said. “You can do it!”
And I did.
The highlights of my sporting career occurred, however, when my sons crossed over into my playing field. I knew I’d scored when my eighteen-year-old returned from the city and described the personal tour of the art museum he’d given his friends, when my sixteen-year-old discussed the contrasting novels of a popular author, when my thirteen-year-old spotted sparkling Orion in the velvety darkness of the sky and announced that it was his favorite constellation.
Hey, these guys even do lunch.
As we rode home from dropping my oldest son off for his freshman year at college, my younger sons and husband started a game of sports trivia.
“Name three pro basketball teams tha
t don’t end in S.”
“Who holds the record for most home runs by a catcher?”
I listened vaguely as I watched the silver headlights of farmers’ tractors glide down rows of moonlit cornfields. Breathing in the sweet scent of the late summer harvest, I noticed a sudden lull in their questioning. I seized the moment.
“Who was better,” I asked, “Muhammad Ali or Cassius Clay?”
Stunned silence.
“Muhammad Ali?” answered one son.
“Cassius Clay?” guessed the other.
Their father burst out laughing. “They’re the same person,” he explained.
“Hey, that’s a really cool trick question, Mom!” said one son.
“Let’s try it on Billy and Greg when we get home,” said the other.
Twenty-five years later, I have finally redeemed myself.
Just don’t ask me the score.
Going to the Dance
The spring night is cool and rainy. My kid is hot and sweaty. It’s the eighth-grade graduation dinner dance, and adolescent anxieties are running high. As I walk down the upstairs hallway to see if my fourteen-year-old son is ready to go, I am enveloped in the strong scent of cologne that wafts from his room.
“Do you think this tie goes with these pants?” he asks nervously.
He is dressed in his sixteen-year-old brother’s clothes. Rather than wear his own attire for this special occasion, he banks on his big brother’s tried and tested “coolness.” I glance at his pant cuffs sweeping the floor, his tucked-in shirt hanging loose and baggy over his belt, and his brother’s suede loafers ready to slide off his feet.
“The tie looks good,” I say. “It’s a perfect match.”
With only a few minutes until blastoff, there’s no point in starting over. If he’s satisfied, then so am I. Time to go.
Heading off to his date’s house for group pictures, I use this car-confined moment to remind him about good manners. He nods absently. His nervousness over this first formal event has taken his mind elsewhere.
As we park the car in his date’s driveway, he whispers his own parting advice: “Mom, don’t take too many pictures.”