Home Before the Street Lights Came On

Growing up on the edge of a small town where our backyard rolled away right into the countryside and summer was a non-stop opportunity for play, one of the only rules our parents laid down was, "Be home before dark."

Tonight is one of those nights I would have argued what "dark" meant, precisely.

I had gone out on my bike reluctantly. I had promised myself I was going to ride at least an hour tonight and somehow had forgotten to remind myself that this was because I enjoy riding, not because I have to. Finally, at 8 o'clock, I changed into my shorts, threw on a tank top, hopped on my bike and took off.

I made a large loop around my neighborhood, nodding at people sitting out on their porches, noticing the hibiscus in this yard, the hollyhocks in that, and the profusion of coneflowers everywhere I looked. A neighbor said something to me from her porch, but the tree frogs and cicadas were so loud, I couldn't understand a word she said. I circled back toward my house, but changed my mind and took a back road that led to the outskirts of town.

Rounding a corner, I encountered a wall of fragrance that nearly made me run my bike into the curb. I couldn't identify any particular flower at the source of the scent – just a profusion of underbrush and wildflowers and vines winding their way up the enormous cottonwoods near the road. There was just enough humidity in the air to hold the fragrance – not overpowering, but thick in the air as though I could scoop aroma into my palm like stream water.

I came to the end of that lane and made a U-turn, almost running directly into a man on a bicycle similarly distracted by the smells and sounds and summery sweetness. We dodged each other and laughed as we continued in our own directions.

I got back to my neighborhood and made it to within a block of my house before turning around and making another loop in the other direction. And suddenly, it occurred to me: I was dawdling, flat-out, old-fashioned dawdling. I didn't want to stop playing and have to go in the house. I was arguing with myself about how dark it really was and figuring I had at least another 15 minutes before I completely ran out of light.

By this time, the tree frog symphony had reached a crescendo and the lightning bug ballet began winking rhythmically in bushes and flowerbeds beside the street. I couldn't see anyone on the porches, but their laughter and conversation drifted lazily past me in that soupy summer air, and I might have fished out some of their words if I'd cared to.

A car rounded the corner in front of me, going fast and in my lane. I realized I was wearing dark shorts and a black tank top at about the same time the driver looked up, saw me and swerved back into his lane.

OK, OK. I got the message. I can practically hear my father's voice reminding me that, if I can see the lightning bugs, that means it's dark.

Tomorrow, I start earlier, wear a white shirt and see if I can find a snow-cone stand.