Mad naked summer night

Sometimes things were so great as a child I could not believe my luck. I was seven, and a punishing August heat wave drove us from our home one night. No one had air conditioning then, and since it was too hot to stay inside, my parents opened our windows and prayed like pagans to the wind for relief. We camped out on our porch, fanning ourselves in the vain hope of cooling off and saw others doing the same. Before long, impatience and weariness with the heat wore us down. It started with clusters of adults chatting, then laughing, and finally beer bottles clinking in toasts in our neighbor's gravel driveway. Kids began to cluster too, and a tinkle of small voices grew louder until, like the miracle of the loaves, pop and chips and pretzels appeared, and kids of all ages arrived. Everyone was staying up late.

The sky was sprinkled with stars. Crickets chirped and fireflies blinked as we rampaged blindly between houses, trees, and fragrant flowering shrubs. No one bothered to stop us and the night made everything new. There was no such thing as trespassing, or property, or propriety, because the boundaries we transgressed were concealed by the cover of night. The invisible walls between one yard and another that we honored and feared by day were forgotten, and we became whatever we wanted and went wherever we wished. Our defiance was intoxicating. Boys and girls ran at full throttle, breathless, sweating and brushing into each other as the sacred shroud of darkness winked and blessed it all. The din of our parents' celebration echoed in the distance but they never intervened. On this most perfect of all perfect nights, true happiness roamed free.

Several older kids organized a treasure hunt and left notes in countless places. I still marvel at how quickly and how well they created this wonderful gift. We tore from one house, one yard, one block to another, shouting and laughing as our flashlights sliced through the night. We finally ended up at my front porch, with a gang of twenty or more. Everyone was searching in corners, in the milk box, and under the mat for a note. Then Patsy, who was probably no more than eleven or twelve, put her arm around my shoulder and whispered in my ear. I shuddered with delight. "Right there, Bert, right there," she said pointing, with a final tender hug. She actually knew my name. And I shuddered even more. And in the middle of our porch in plain sight overlooked, stood a large paper bag filled with candy and cakes. I shrieked and grabbed it, and held it aloft as my comrades burst into cheers. We shared it under the stars in our front yard, and I knew this night could never be forgotten.

But it was. When morning arrived and I went outside, the world was recaptured by the lie. Bacchus had fled with his satyrs and nymphs and it seemed like only a dream. Our neighborhood had no fences, but our yards were once again discrete, as were all of us.  I asked a couple kids how they'd liked the party. "Oh, it was fine," they said, without a trace of excitement for the magic we'd felt the night before. Maybe it had only been magical for me. Was I the only one? Do people forget their trips to Narnia all or most of the time?

A couple weeks later Patsy's family moved. Her dad was transferred to New Mexico and they left our town for good. The day before they moved I saw her across the street and she waved goodbye and smiled. She actually remembered me, and I could tell by that look and that smile that she remembered the magic as well. Patsy, you dark-haired spirit of the night, do you remember that magic still?