On a Clear Night

by Marnie O. Mamminga

  Their father stayed behind in the role of treats dispenser. With a good football game on, a quiet house, and a big bowl of candy all to himself, he was a happy man.

  Across the yard, the boys ran to pick up their neighborhood friend who, as an only child, delighted in assuming the role of a fourth brother with my sons. (I tried to ignore the fact that his mother, an art teacher, created fabulously perfect costumes.)

  Because we live on the outskirts of town, with houses spread far apart and few streetlights, his mom and I always accompanied the boys. In truth, Halloween provided us with the perfect excuse to walk under the stars, smell the damp scent of newly fallen leaves, and, most importantly, enjoy this escapade with our sons.

  When the guys were little, they were content to walk by our sides and hold our hands. As they got bigger, they dashed ahead to the next neighbor’s house until we called for them to wait. Before long, it wasn’t cool to have moms with bright flashlights in sight. As the boys dashed from house to house, we hung back, following behind them in the darkness.

  Every now and then, they would stop, unsure of where we were.

  “Mom?” one would call out in the darkness.

  “Right here,” we’d answer, blinking our flashlights on and off like fireflies.

  Relieved, they’d run off through the next yard. We could hear their laughter and squeals of joy when they received an exceptionally good treat. Then suddenly all would be still.

  “Mom?” they’d call again.

  “Here we are,” we’d shout, flashing our lights from the side of the road, not as far away as they thought.

  And so it would go.

  Each year brought a thrilling and poignant performance. There were nights that the stars shone in the heavens like brightly lit lanterns to guide our way. We pointed out the constellations as we walked down a road skirted by open fields.

  There were nights when a mist or drizzle made the leaves more pungent, and the woods and fields refreshed us with their fragrance.

  There were nights when the moon was full, and all was lit with grandeur and beauty.

  And there were freezing cold nights when snowflakes made a surprise appearance. Falling softly from a cloud-coated sky, they dusted us in sparkling splendor as we marched along.

  Best of all, there were nights filled with great camaraderie, laughter, good visits, the drama of disguise, and the mystery of a walk in the dark. Nights of enchantment and joy.

  Then one year, my oldest son, at about thirteen, realized that perhaps it was time for him to exit this show. A few seasons later, our middle son and our neighbor’s son bowed out. My youngest and I continued this long-running act with a couple of his buddies as extra cast members, but we have finally crossed the threshold of an activity outgrown.

  So we won’t be going out this year. It’s time to close the curtain on a magical night. The scenery was magnificent, the costumes delightful, and the characters the finest with whom I could ever hope to share a stage.

  This year, I’ll be waiting in the wings. I’ll pull a chair up to the window with a glowing pumpkin by my side and wait for my little neighborhood friends to come by. When they do, I’ll compliment them on their wonderfully inspired attire, give them an extra treat or two, and watch with envy as they skip down my driveway to the glimmer of a waiting flashlight and fade into the night.

  Then, I think I’ll sit back and help myself to a candy bar or two.

  Back to School Blues

  The house is too quiet. The phone has stopped ringing. The TV sits silent. No maddening video game music comes from the porch. Outside, the basketball hoop stands like a lonely sentry on an empty driveway. The laughter and shouting that rebounded there this summer are now just echoes.

  Three basketballs, a dented Whiffle ball and bat, a pile of muddy golf balls and one rusty club, and two worn footballs are scattered like confetti across the yard where they were all abandoned for the next game of choice. In a brief moment, the action has all stopped.

  Today is the first day of school.

  Although many parents look forward to this day after a long summer of kids underfoot, I find it somewhat unsettling. Perhaps it’s because my three boys are teenagers, only a few ball bounces away from their own independent lives. I know that the quiet I hear today will be a permanent sound in the not-too-distant future.

  To be honest, there’s a lot about the summer teen scene I won’t miss. At the top of the list are the aforementioned messes. They appear with amazing regularity, no matter how often I direct the boys to pick up. Remnants of orange Kool-Aid sprinkled on the counter, pop cans deserted exactly where the last sip occurred, a minefield of shoes scattered at every entrance, newspapers left throughout the house, chip bags tucked into a variety of obscure places—under the bed or in the bathroom cupboard.

  Add to this mess the scramble of their summer activities— band camps, team practices, summer jobs, sport camps, vacations with family, and trips with friends—and our calendar looked like a spiderweb gone haywire.

  Throw in staggered curfews for a fourteen-, a sixteen-, and a nineteen-year-old, and my husband and I were up all hours of the night, like summer camp counselors on the midnight shift.

  So what will I miss about the boys’ summer time at home? A lot. I’ll miss the energetic sound of a basketball thumping on the driveway. The chance encounter of a good one-on-one visit in the kitchen. The kids’ lively banter as they play pool on the porch.

  I’ll miss glimpsing the sweet innocence of young love as my oldest and his girlfriend cuddle on the couch watching videos. I’ll miss my younger sons’ sleepovers with their buddies, the late-night smells of pizza and popcorn, the low rhythms of their rock music, the voices of happy boys drifting through the house.

  Most of all, I’ll miss the daily opportunities to witness my sons’ gentle metamorphoses into young men. Under the soft summer skies, I observed their joy at trying new things, their adolescent disappointments and courageous comebacks, their delight in accomplishing their goals.

  Sometimes, in quiet moments, each son spoke of a summer experience and cultivated it into deeper expressions of thoughts and feelings. As a gardener tending the most precious of blooms, I gathered the essence of their youthful spirits and hugged them close to my heart.

  But every growing season must come to an end. One bright, sunny morning, the school bell beckoned, and out the door, one by one, they went.

  With the back end of his used pickup piled high with boxes, a worn stuffed chair, and his computer, my oldest son pulled confidently out of the driveway and headed off to his second year of college. As he turned the corner, the early morning light caught the gleam of his brass trombone perched on a laundry basket, and in a sparkle, he was gone.

  A few minutes later, my second son eagerly backed the car out of the garage to begin his junior year of high school. My youngest son, a freshman, jubilant at finally not having to ride the bus, climbed in next to him. Their faces beamed with delight in mutual anticipation of this new independence. With a happy honk and blasting radio, out the driveway they went.

  As I re-enter the house, the quiet grips me. All is still. Even the dog senses that something has changed. He posts himself by the front window and begins his vigil of watching and waiting for the boys’ return.

  At a momentary loss as to what to do, I grab a sponge and slowly scrub the last of the Kool-Aid stains from the kitchen counter. This simple chore gives me a moment to regroup and reflect. With my youngest off to high school, I know that in four short years, this phase of my life will be over.

  Much like the first days of kindergarten, these back-to-school days bring an exciting sense of new beginnings for both parents and children, and also the recognition that this time of togetherness is fleeting.

  So, on this first day of school, although a myriad of responsibilities await me, I think I’ll bounce this stillness away and go shoot a few baskets. The sounds of a thumping ball will ease my lonely heart.

  Th
e Sound of Peace

  They stand straight and tall. Age has not withered their pride. A small ensemble of World War II veterans in tightly buttoned uniforms form a line for the start of the ceremony. Gray hair sticks out from under their caps; deep lines crease their faces. At the sound of a sharp command, the color guard moves forward, wavering slightly under the weight of their flags. Their shuffling feet struggle to keep in step.

  A second sharp command brings them to a standstill. Ready. Aim. With great effort, those with rifles cock their weapons and pull the triggers. Fire! The explosions throw their frail bodies slightly off balance. Again. Point. Aim. Fire! The gun blasts reverberate through the air, shocking the small crowd into hushed stillness.

  Veterans Day in our town is always observed in a dignified and respectful manner. The ceremony rotates between the east-and west-side cemeteries; if the weather is inclement, it is held at the local VFW hangar. The service is short, to the point, and always moving.

  The high school brass ensemble often leads off with the low notes of an old military hymn. An invocation, introductions, thank-yous, a short address, the Pledge of Allegiance, and “The Star-Spangled Banner” follow. The service ends with a rifle salute to fallen comrades, the placing of wreaths, and the playing of taps by one of the high school trumpeters.

  With the exception of the high school brass ensemble, the group is mostly elderly. Gray heads, walkers, and canes dot the crowd. Conversations center on knee-replacement surgeries and other health-related issues. Most of those in attendance seem to know each other. They’ve been here before.

  I think about the aging faces I see in the color guard. It is not hard to envision them in their fading uniforms as handsome young men, strong and vibrant. The Vietnam vet who is now our local sheriff gives the main address. He speaks passionately about MIAs and POWs. He sounds and looks tough, yet tears unabashedly slide down his face. I wonder about his memories. Is he close to someone who is not accounted for?

  I sit in my folding chair at the back of the room as an observer. I am not part of the camaraderie that holds most of these people together. And for that I am extremely grateful. I do not want war memories. I am here because one of my sons has volunteered to play with the high school brass ensemble.

  I watch my sixteen-year-old son as he holds his trumpet, ready to play taps. He is handsome and strong. Full of enthusiasm and vitality. I think of other mothers before me who must have thought the same about their sons as they sent them off to war.

  The price of peace. Here in this little ceremony is a snippet of what it takes.

  I am glad that my son and his brother before him have volunteered to play in the brass ensemble at this Veterans Day ceremony. Their grandfathers, now deceased, served overseas in the navy and army during World War II. They would be proud.

  I think of their grandmother’s cousin who was an eight-year POW in the Vietnam War and the strength and courage it must have taken him to survive. I think of my best friend from kindergarten whose husband has served as a captain in the navy, making the military his lifetime career. I think of a couple of my oldest son’s buddies, fresh-faced twenty-year-olds heading off for a stint in the marines or air force, full of enthusiasm and a zest for life. All give faces to our freedom.

  With the speeches now over, it is time for taps. Fingering the keys of his trumpet, my son appears slightly nervous. He is a sensitive kid, and I know he feels the weight of what this melody means to so many who sit in the audience. Lifting the silver horn to his lips, he takes a deep breath and plays the song strong and sweet and clear. A fellow high school trumpeter softly echoes the notes from a secluded distance. The air seems filled with poignant memories.

  I have heard my son play taps many times before, in much less solemn but equally compelling circumstances. He often brings his trumpet up to the Northwoods to the little log cabin built by his great-grandparents. In anticipation of school band tryouts, he will often practice there.

  Sometimes, as the summer sun sets brilliantly over the silver waters of the lake, he is inspired to play taps. He stands on a wooded hill, silhouetted against the rosy gold of the sky. In this world where eagles fly and loons call, the peace at the end of the day, like the pine scent in the air, is almost tangible. The trumpet’s clear notes float across the water like waves gently lapping against the shore. A soothing stillness seems to permeate the forest and lake. Even the birds are hushed.

  Day is done.

  The red glow of the sunset fills the sky.

  Gone the sun.

  A sprinkling of sparkling stars begins to appear.

  From the lake, from the hills, from the sky.

  Dusk softly falls.

  All is well, safely rest.

  Peacefulness permeates our souls.

  God is nigh.

  The last clear notes of the trumpet fade across the lake and echo into the forest.

  The sound of peace.

  For the vets who served us and the children who follow, may it always be so.

  Listen To What I Hear

  As always, the phone call came at the last minute.

  “So when are we taking the boys Christmas caroling?” asked my neighbor Mary, cheerful beyond measure with only five days left before Christmas.

  Christmas caroling? Was she crazy? The December 25 deadline for shopping, wrapping, baking, and cleaning loomed like an apparition over Scrooge’s head.

  Who had time to sing?

  Yet I knew that passing up the opportunity to take my three young sons and Mary’s little guy out into the crisp night air to sing carols for our neighbors would haunt me like the Ghost of Christmas Past.

  “How does the twenty-third look?” I asked, mustering as much enthusiasm as I could.

  “Perfect!” said Mary, who doubles as a highly organized art teacher. “I’ll send out flyers for our neighbors to leave their porch lights on if they’d like us to stop. You bring the hot chocolate.”

  With that she hung up. There was no backing out now. The event was rolling along like the final verses of the “Hallelujah Chorus.”

  “When are we going Christmas caroling?” asked an eager son hovering nearby.

  “The day after tomorrow,” I answered.

  “I get the sleigh bells this year!” all three yelled together.

  Two days later, the mystery of a winter night beckoned, dark and frosty. The three boys and I stuffed ourselves into as much warm clothing as allowed us to move, filled the thermos with hot chocolate, grabbed a bag of cups and marshmallows, and snatched the sleigh bells from the mantel.

  Just about the time we started to sweat, Mary called to say they were on their way.

  “Meet you at the end of the driveway,” she said.

  “Let’s go!” the boys yelled, dashing out the door into the welcome blast of cold night air.

  Down the hill and across the street came Mary and Brad. As we gathered in the road, the boys let out whoops of joy at the sight that greeted us.

  “Wow! Look at that!” Brad said.

  Mary’s flyer had done the trick. A beacon of porch lights, like a string of constellations, twinkled around our horseshoe-shaped lane, directing us to a waiting audience.

  “We better do a warm-up before we go,” Mary suggested.

  Like a rowdy Midwestern version of an English boys’ choir, our four guys launched into a rousing rendition of “Jingle Bells,” our opener, ringing their bells with enough gusto to spook even Marley’s ghost. As they hit the last note, they were off and running to the nearest house to see who could push the doorbell first. Mary and I lagged behind, struggling to keep up with their energy.

  As soon as a neighbor swung open the storm door, the boys broke into song. One by one, more friendly faces began to pop up behind the first one until we had a small ensemble bobbing in tune with our beat. Ending our short medley with “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” the boys were often rewarded with candy canes or Christmas cookies.

  Of course, Mary and I had to h
ave some too.

  Then it was on to the next welcoming porch light as more shivering neighbors shouted to family members, “Come quickly, it’s the Christmas carolers!”

  After five or six houses, our throats were ready for a short intermission. Sipping the soothing hot cocoa, we looked skyward through the sculpted arms of a huge old oak tree, studied the stars, and embraced the sudden stillness of the night.

  In that simple moment, I found the peace of Christmas.

  But soon the rustle of jingling bells indicated it was time to move on. One of our favorite stops was at Bill and Paula’s. Although Bill’s speech was impaired from a stroke, he opened the door like a king welcoming his favorite minstrels to his court. Paula appeared right behind him with an array of cookies made just for us.

  The boys’ repertoire for Bill differed slightly from the rest. They knew his favorite song was “Silent Night,” and they sang it with all the awkward tenderness that their innocent young voices could muster.

  A moment of magic hung in the air, like a snowflake drifting through a moonlit night, as the boys ended their song. With misted eyes, Bill broke into enthusiastic applause and with great effort called each boy by name.

  “J-John, B-Bob, T-Tom, and B-Brad, that was wonderful!” he joyfully proclaimed.

  The boys beamed with the awareness that they had given a gift.

  As our guys grew older, musical instruments began to replace the bells. Two trombones, a trumpet, and a drummer often made up our caroling band, with Mary and me as backup singers.

  Some years we sang in soft snowfall, and some years the nights were so cold the boys’ instruments stuck to their lips. Sometimes visiting grandmothers trudged along beside us, and occasionally the voices of new children who had moved into the neighborhood joined the swell. Once we even sang “Away in a Manager” to a neighbor’s stabled horse.