Mamminga - On a clear night: essays from the heartland

On a Clear Night

On a Clear Night

Essays from the Heartland

Marnie O. Mamminga

WISCONSIN HISTORICAL SOCIETY PRESS

Published by the Wisconsin Historical Society Press Publishers since 1855

The Wisconsin Historical Society helps people connect to the past by collecting, preserving, and sharing stories. Founded in 1846, the Society is one of the nations finest historical institutions.

Order books by phone toll free: (888) 999-1669

Order books online: shop.wisconsinhistory.org

Join the Wisconsin Historical Society: wisconsinhistory.org/membership

2017 by Marnie O. Mamminga

E-book edition 2017

Versions of these essays have previously appeared in the Chicago Tribune, Chicago Tribune Magazine, The Christian Science Monitor, Daily Herald, Detroit Free Press Magazine, Lake Superior Magazine, Midwest Prairie Review, Readers Digest, and several Chicken Soup for the Soul books.

For permission to reuse material from On a Clear Night: Essays from the Heartland (ISBN: 978-0-87020-824-9; e-book ISBN 978-0-87020-825-6), please access www.copyright.com or contact the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc. (CCC), 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, 978-750-8400. CCC is a not-for-profit organization that provides licenses and registration for a variety of users.

Cover design by Andrew J. Brozyna, AJB Design

Typesetting by Diana Boger

Cover photo: As Night Slowly Fades Away by Matthew Crowley

21 20 19 18 17 1 2 3 4 5

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Mamminga, Marnie O., author.

Title: On a clear night : essays from the heartland / Marnie O. Mamminga.

Description: [Madison] : Wisconsin Historical Society Press, [2017]

Identifiers: LCCN 2016047368 (print) | LCCN 2016058488 (e-book) | ISBN 9780870208249 (paperback) | ISBN 9780870208256 (e-book) | ISBN 9780870208256 (E-book)

Subjects: LCSH: Mamminga, Marnie O. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY /

Personal Memoirs.

Classification: LCC PS3613.A5266 A6 2017 (print) | LCC PS3613.A5266 (e-book) | DDC 814/.6 [B] dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016047368

For Lily, Amber, Joy, Elena, Ryan, Alice, and those to come... may your journeys be lit by the brightest stars in the Milky Way.

Contents

An evening star. A pale pink dusk.

Fireflies wing their way through the gloaming, the rhythmic flash of their golden lights inviting us to step out into the night. It promises to be a clear one.

And so we do.

Often, in the quiet of that gathering twilight, the moments of the day that brought us joy or sorrow or laughter begin to take on more significance.

Sometimes a deeper understanding of our days experiences greets us boldly, like a full silver moon sliding up over a field or forest. Sometimes knowledge comes to us in smaller bursts, like the scattered flashes of fireflies. But most often, our awareness starts with just a stirring in the heart, like blossoming starlight.

For even though we were not seeking those moments, had not planned or anticipated them, they reflect who we are, where weve been, and, most importantly, what we were thinking. Pausing to ponder, we discover that those seemingly ordinary experiences often transcend into moments of unexpected grace.

My hope in writing these essays is that the light created when we share our similar everyday moments might dispel the shadows, illuminate our paths, and remind us that we are not alone, that we do not walk in darkness.

Come, let us look to the starlight together.

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Lifes longing for itself.

KAHLIL GIBRAN

The day has a perfect pitch to it. Warm autumn light filters through treetops, back-dropped by a brilliant blue sky. Along Main Street, the distant rattles of drums and tuning horns are accented by a cacophony of conversation and laughter. Today is the annual high school homecoming parade.

All is about to begin.

Waiting for the shrill blast of the police siren to start the parade, I stand on a curb and watch the others gathered for the afternoons festivities. Proud parents, local businesspeople escaping from work, grandparents in lawn chairs, and young mothers surrounded by small children line the parade route in eager anticipation.

Whens it going to start, Mama? my five-year-old son asks impatiently.

Soon, I reply. Here, lets see how many red leaves we can find while we wait.

My two-year-old joins the search while the baby watches his brothers intently from his stroller.

I watch my three sons sweet faces alight with eagerness. In a few short minutes, the football team will be rolling by in hay-wagon chariots, tossing candy as they go; shiny red fire engines will blast their sirens; and elaborate crepe paper floats filled with waving teenagers will cruise past.

Most fun of all will be the thrilling sound of the band. Colorful uniforms, flashy instruments, and joyful music will march toward us in one big mass.

I hear them! my oldest shouts.

Here they come! his little brother yells.

Squealing with laughter, they lean out over the precipice of their street-corner curb for a better look. Even the baby strains his little face to the sound of the approaching music.

In the distance, we hear the first snappy sounds of a Sousa beat. Muffled at first, the clear notes of the trumpets, steady cadence of the drums, and brash power of the trombones begin to emerge.

All of a sudden, the band is upon us. Leaping back to the safety of our curb, we watch as a blur of color and harmony sweeps by. Clear clarinets, high-pitched piccolos, and booming tubas pepper their notes into the air. Sailing by in their synchronized steps, the musicians flow steadily forward, sending their music aloft to dance in the autumn breeze.

We clap and clap with excitement. Then, just as suddenly as they appeared, they are gone. We watch with some sadness as they march on down the street, wishing the brief moment of their music could have lasted a little longer.

Twelve years later, the day has a perfect pitch to it once again. Warm autumn light filters through treetops back-dropped by a brilliant blue sky. Today is the annual high school homecoming parade. The shrill blast of a siren wakes me from my reverie. The parade is starting!

Today, I stand alone on the corner. I check my video camera to make sure all is set. In the distance, I can hear the muffled sound of mingling instruments and drums. My heart begins to pound with excitement.

Waving red and gold flags suddenly appear, mirage-like, on the streets horizon. The notes of a familiar Sousa march begin to emerge.

Here comes the band!

Through the twirling flags, I spot the crisp white uniform of the senior drum major: my oldest son. Head held high, marching with smooth precision, he leads the band confidently down the street. Spotting me on the sidelines, he smiles brightly. I wave back, trying to hold the camera steady. Too soon, he is past.

Quickly I search for my middle son playing a trumpet in the fast clip of moving lines.

Dont let me miss him, I pray, as they march steadily along.

There he is! Smack dab in the middle of the band, concentrating on the trumpet melody, he struts his freshman independence by wearing his golf uniform to show that musicians can be athletes, too. My camera lens catches him briefly as his line files by.

Spinning around, I see my youngest sons middle-school band approaching. I dash across the street for a better angle, just in time to catch him in the center of the front row. Music memorized, cavalier hat at a jaunty angle, his eyes twinkling, he proudly plies the slide of his trombone for the first time in a parade. For a second, he passes before the camera lens before he too moves out of view.