Last night was one of those times when I truly wish I had taken a few more photos. Then you would see how all the children looked gathered around the fire, wrapped in blankets as the sun went down, and telling ghost stories. I like to remind them of my childhood growing up in Woodside. On Summer evenings, no one but the most most unfortunate children would ever be called in before eleven pm. Those of us with understanding mothers would gather on stoops, waiting for the ice cream man's last rounds, telling each other ghost stories.
Sometimes, this could be thrilling--especially if one of the kids had an Irish grandmother who had filled her head with old tales, preferably stories with eyewitness testimony from an aunt or cousin. Other times, it was rambly hogwash, and we would all laugh and make fun of the teller for being so un-scary. Then there were stories that would leave you uneasy, as in that "Summer of Sam" when every side alley or failing street light seemed ominous, and we children shared snippets of stories we'd half heard the adults whispering. On those nights, you would head to bed with thoughts pressing in so heavily that you needed to sleep on the floor of your Mom and Dad's bedroom pretending to be there for air conditioner.
As the twilight grew dim last night and the little outdoor fire blazed up in the hearth, the children begged me for ghost stories. They gathered round in blankets and towels to keep out the chill and the mosquitos. A friend of theirs was with them, waiting to be picked up when her older brother and sister came back from work with our daughter, Marie. We all told story after story, a few from local lore, one or two remembered from my youth, and even a chilling tale adapted from an episode of The Twilight Zone.
At about ten o'clock, Marie texted to say that she and the others were heading home from work. I sent her a reply: "Was telling ghost stories. If you want to scare the daylights out of kids, somehow sneak into the backyard and arrive on the deck from the shadows." Marie, never one who needs much explaining, wrote back, "We're on it."
Within ten minutes, just as I was telling the story of the strange goings on at a French Chateau moved brick by brick to our neighborhood in the 1920s, the three older siblings leaped out from the shadows screaming. We all jumped--even me--and it was as thrilling and hilarious as any end to a night of story telling could ever be. The laughter as they all compared notes and told how they'd crawled on the ground military-style to preserve the surprise was classic. All three were looking sharp in their uniforms from their summer jobs at the country club, but just for that moment, I could see them as children again, having fun by the fire on a summer night.
(Oldest daughter and youngest daughter in firelight.)
Alice, your story conjured up wonderful childhood memories of summer nights with all 8 of us ( mom and dad included) on the front porch from after dinner past sunset - catching fireflies, playing kickball, listening to the ballgame on the radio or as you so colorfully relayed - telling stories! Thank you 😊 ... Nancy
Posted by: Nancy Dunn | August 16, 2017 at 03:51 AM
Thank you, Nancy! There is nothing like a porch. In Woodside, we had "the stoop" and in Barryville "the porch." So many memories.
Posted by: Alice Gunther | August 21, 2017 at 08:15 PM