Back Home by Chris Hardie
The whippoorwill welcomed the infant hours of July with its night song in a tree just outside our bedroom window.
The 3 a.m. serenade was loud enough to rouse me from my slumber, even though the windows were closed and the central air conditioning was on. Outside in the astronomical twilight it was still hot and muggy, but not as stifling as the previous night. The overnight low was 81 degrees in La Crosse, the warmest low temperature on record for June and tying the record for the warmest low temperature ever.
I listened to the onomatopoeic call of the quintessential nocturnal sound of summer and it brought back memories of growing up on the farm. Our family didn’t have air conditioning, so windows were left wide open with hopes of capturing some night cooling. The sound of the whippoorwill was loud and clear overnight.
When I was 10 years old, sleep was deep and easy from the moment I hit the pillow until it was time for morning chores. But more than 50 years later, with my body aching and my mind active, I could tell that returning to the land of nod was going to be a difficult journey, as it seems so many of these days.
So I quietly slipped out of bed about 4 a.m. and headed to the kitchen to make some coffee. With a steaming cup in hand, I opened the side porch door and was immediately engulfed in a warm, wet blanket of air.
I sat in the rocking chair as the bird song began. The whippoorwill got in one last round before dawn. An owl hooted. Robins joined in the chorus. Barn swallows began to swoop and dive for their morning meal of insects.
Dawn came gently. The gray sky was lined with velvet-like ribbons of pink, mauve and yellow as the rising sun competed with the storm clouds. Streaks of lightning flashed across the horizon and rumbles of thunder rolled through the valley.
I smelled the rain in the downdrafts of ozone-rich fresh air. That was followed by the sweet petrichor, the smell of an organic compound called geosmin and plant oils. Only a few drops fell, enough to produce a faint rainbow in the southwestern sky just as the sun climbed above the eastern hills.
The storm had passed, but a glance at the sky and confirmation by weather radar indicated there was more to come. About an hour later another storm rolled through, with heavy rain.
Through the porch door I noticed a doe and fawn in the yard, seemingly oblivious to the downpour. A summer shower did not deter their nibbling. I quietly opened the door for a better look. They did not mind my presence.
The previous afternoon we were visited by a few turkeys hanging out in the yard, unaware of our presence on the other side of the windows. Several of them were sprawled out on the grass, completely relaxed.
Wild elderflowers are in full bloom. Blackcaps are ripening, to be followed by blackberries in a few weeks.
The height of summer.
I refilled my mug and savored the morning … savored being alive.
Chris Hardie spent more than 30 years as a reporter, editor
