About five years ago I saw Garrison Keillor perform his radio show “A Prairie Home Companion” on an outdoor stage in Boise, Idaho. He told stories and sang songs long into the hot summer evening. At one point he paused, wiped the sweat from his brow, and looked out at his audience. “Does the sun ever go down in Boise?” he asked.
It was a predictable question from an easterner who was not use to the summer clock on the western edge of the Mountain Time zone. It was nine-thirty at night and the sun had still not dipped below the horizon. Though summer days seem unremittingly long and blazing in the west, our nights are pure magic.
I was reminded of this fact when I took a walk just after sunset. I was staying in town and decided to venture out toward the city limits to where there was more open space, soccer fields and the high school track. The cooler temperatures of evening felt good to me, and I had a lot on my mind. I was thinking about the memoir I’d spent five years writing, and how to publish it. I couldn’t decide whether to try to publish it in a traditional way, or self-publish it. I had little enthusiasm for marketing my book. It had taken so much time and energy to write it.
Lost in my problem-solving, I almost missed the pretty streaks of crimson on the horizon, remnants of the fading sun, and the moon which suddenly appeared in the sky. I heard crickets chirping, and in the distance, the lonely wail of a freight train horn.
The evening sights and sounds reminded me of a summer night long ago. The outdoor movie theatre in the small Midwestern town I grew up in, was open during the summer months. Once, my entire family hopped in our big boat of a car, the Chrysler, and went to watch a war movie my father wanted to see. Considering it was high summer, the movie was appropriately named, The Longest Day.
Bug splats on the front windshield sometimes obscured our view of the film, but we didn’t mind. We could still hear the dialogue from the little speaker hanging on dad’s half-opened window. My brother and I were sent to get popcorn and soda at the snack shop. We chased each other through the parked cars facing the giant movie screen. The night was so mild, some people stretched out on their car hoods to watch the show.
I picked up my pace on my evening walk, my sandals tapping out a brisk rhythm on the sidewalk. Dusk was slipping into full dark now. I could smell the hay from the farm field on my left and the cut grass from the soccer field on my right. In the fading light I could barely make out the silhouette of a young man kicking a soccer ball around. Near the high school track, a woman and her dog passed me. “Good evening,” she murmured. The school track seemed empty, but then I heard music. Some teenagers were in the stands above the track messing around and Bluetoothing music from a portable speaker.
I had this fanciful notion that we were all refugees from a sweltering July day, escaped into a mellow night. Like vampires, we were seeking the velvet air that wouldn’t hurt our eyes or burn our skin.
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