I remember when a summer night was an excuse to get out of the house, find the nearest outdoor bar with ambiance (or not), drink Long Island Tea or Screwdrivers or Scotch & Soda with a twist…or whatever. It was party, party, all the time! And somehow, the next morning, I made it to work, and did a fairly good job managing the hangover.
Now I look back, scratching my head. How on earth did I do that?
I was in my twenties. That’s how.
In my thirties, I started having babies. And divorces. My thirties were a blur of joy and crisis, so I can’t even remember much of them. Summer nights meant getting the kids to bed, the bills paid, the house clean, and still having energy left over to read before bed. This was my recipe for a great summer night in my thirties!
In my forties, I began to gain a semblance of sanity. And my kids became teen-agers. At this point, I began to drink wine, exclusively. No more cute, little, designer drinks that looked good but made me throw up. Wine, I could control. Summer nights amounted to a few lake weekends with girlfriends, and marathon talks with teen-agers, trying to instill common sense into all those hormones. Ha! Ha! What a futile task. But I did my best, and a great summer night was a relaxed discussion on the deck with one or two of my teen-agers.
In my fifties, I had the best time ever. My kids were grown and gone or going; I discovered online dating, I had a great job, I’d learned to recognize and avoid toxic relationships. My summer nights were spent on my backyard deck, drinking good wine (by this time I’d become somewhat fluent), and having marathon conversations with other single moms about kids, men, and, well…mostly, men. How to tell the right ones from the wrong ones, which sounds simple, but isn’t.
Now in my sixties, I find that summer nights are for chats with my husband on the deck. Embracing the starlight. Enjoying a full moon and high tide coming into a Lowcountry marsh. Never forgetting bug spray. (It is interesting to me that when I was young I didn’t give a thought to getting a hundred mosquito bites, but now, I cover up with bug spray every, single day in the summer.) Summer nights are for…being still. Appreciating what I have, and laying aside regrets. Summer nights now reek of contentment, and appreciative, secret smiles.
However, I’m amazed at how much I miss fireflies.
When we moved to Hilton Head Island from Baltimore in 2015, I never gave life without fireflies a thought. I assumed fireflies were all over the place. Maryland, and everywhere I’d lived before, had spectacular firefly displays every spring and summer. I am still saddened by their absence. They are tiny, summer jewels – nature’s sparklers. Now, I settle for a flock of ibis in the yard, or the squawk of herons flying overhead. Egrets camping down for the night in a tree.
I guess that’s a good trade-off.
I ponder my deck on the back of our house and the light bulbs so carefully chosen and staple-gunned in place underneath the eaves to illuminate the night. I guess it was automatic…get the deck ready for a party…and now, I think…what was the point? We hardly use them.
I think that God…all this time…has been waiting to show me the rewards, the simple pleasures, the earned delights…of surviving all the previous decades and alighting with determination and grace into this one.
Summer nights now, are for softer things. Quieter things.
Like fireflies.
Or in my case, egrets.
