The Streetlight

The warm nights of August spoke in throbbing tones of locusts and muted train whistles. On those nights, I would watch the night push the remaining red of the day into the horizon. I could see my nemesis glowing too brightly; an intrusion on the placid scene that nature was painting. I watched with my face pressed to the window screen. The metallic smell of that screen remains weaved into the sensory fabric of my memory of those summer nights. I would kneel in my pajamas with my elbows on the window sill watching the rest of the kids in the neighborhood, the older kids; continue the evening games without me while my nemesis lighted the scene as if to taunt me further. I hated that streetlight.

The streetlight; it was a siren to moths, invader of darkness and blotter of stars. Its light marred the summer scene from my window. It brought the end to each summer day.

I tried everything. I litigated that it wasn’t on yet by pointing out that it was still flickering or was not fully bright yet. I even broke the bulb with rocks on several occasions. I looked for the cord to unplug it. Despite my best efforts, it always won. It had colleagues that shone brighter when its bulb was broken. Some nights it would hum but not flicker or, it would glow very dimly; as if to get my hopes up but then dash them with a sudden explosion of light. Some nights I would attempt to defy it by continuing to play in its light. It wouldn’t last long. Someone would always notice and say “Johnny, the streetlights on” or worse, the inevitable whistle.

Every kid in the neighborhood knew my mom’s whistle. It was the really loud, two-fingers-in-the-mouth whistle that typically only men would do. You could hear it ten blocks away. I think everyone in South Toledo knew the sound of my mom’s whistle. Strangers would come out of their homes to tell me that my mom was calling and I had to go home. If I was indoors somewhere, Orris Tabner would interrupt his sportscast on channel 11 to tell me my Mom was calling me. It was legendary. My friends were so impressed with how loud my Mom could whistle. I was too; but I still dreaded hearing it.

I know I was only seven, but I was a night person. I would play kickball, kick-the-can, five dollars, chase, hide-and-seek or smear-the-queer until midnight if you let me. Every moment was precious at this time of year. The locusts and lightning bugs collaborated to remind you that it was August. Summer was ending and school was fast approaching.

Summer.

Summer was the taste of rhubarb poached from a neighbor’s yard. Nobody actually liked rhubarb, it was just cool to pick something in the wild and eat it. It was sliced garden tomatoes at dinner; red Kool-Aid, a melting Bomb-Pop (the white part was my favorite).

It was the distinct sound a ripe walnut made as it hit the side of a car, the ping a dodgeball made as it bounced off of someone’s face, the underwater kerthud of a well executed cannonball, and the ice cream truck’s jingle (ours was the “Do You Know the Muffin Man” song).

It was the smell of a fresh evening rain on hot blacktop and of freshly cut grass; the feel of cool dirt in your hands and cool sheets on your bed; hot sand underfoot and the smooth coolness of a dive into the pool.

Summer was the sight of mulberry stains on shirts, grass stains on jeans and dirt everywhere else. It was the scene of bats doing skillful airborne maneuvers as they resumed their war on bugs each night and evening shows of wheelie riding and garbage can jumping by all of us adolescent Evel Knievels.

It was also the sight of that damned streetlight; my daily reminder that it wouldn’t last forever.

JArtB Saturday, August 30, 2008 at 06:05