What Happened (Part 5)

 

Another night journey I remember was going to the kitchen to get a drink of water, an even farther trek for a little boy, and one that had to be undertaken without lights since we weren’t supposed to waste electricity.  One time I couldn’t budge anyone else out of bed, so I had to go by myself.  It was a bright summer night, however, and as I moved through hall and living room and dining room the house seemed alive, with the windows open to catch what cooling breezes they could, and the long curtains waved and bellied slowly in the wind.  I got to the kitchen and managed to get my water (climbing on a stool or chair), and outside the window over the sink I could hear the ash trees rustling in the wind and see the back yard.  In those days there was a tall, rather harsh “safety-light” between us and our neighbor Mr. Friedeck, and the yard and garden were lit up like a stage.  I watched for what seemed like a long time, fascinated and a little frightened, wondering if I would witness some revelation of the secret life of the night, so perfect seemed the set up.  Plenty of bugs fluttered around the light.  Neighborhood dogs barked in the distance, restless.  The trees in Mr. Friedeck’s yard bowed and waved like signifying giants in the light-pole glare, their knees lost in shadow.  No robbers or trespassers, bent on nefarious deeds, crossed the stage. 

At last I went back to bed.  I don’t remember the return trip, but I probably scurried; when I was a kid we knew that if anything bad was going to happen, it was probably behind you, and it was better not to look.  In fact, it was a generally held belief that if you didn’t see “it” (whatever “it” was; we called our boogeyman “the Hoofer”) then it couldn’t hurt you.  It was this theory of the safety of non-visibility that led to one of the most storied incidents of my childhood, and one last tale of my juvenile nocturnal wanderings.