A Night Song

                                                     

Humidity sat heavy in my lungs.  I was on a weekend camping trip with a group of friends from high school and the hot, thick Missouri air was hard to breathe that day.  We had all been out in the real world for two years now, trying to be grown up men.  But for these two days we were choosing to be boys again.  We were floating down the crystal clear North Fork River in canoes and rafts and cut-off jeans.  Fishing poles and one-liners ready at all times.
         
My best friend hadn’t wanted a traditional bachelor party; it just wasn’t his style.  Parties and wild nights weren’t any of our styles, really, so the six of us had excitedly planned this outdoor adventure, instead.  We were doing water, woods, fish and no chicks allowed.  Just like we used to do.
         
This was the end of the first day and the sun was just now lowering behind the clumps of oak trees that lined the banks of the water.  The blue sky had switched over to green tinged hues, swirled with yellow.  These colors cast a strange, sallow luster on my skin.  Such a contrast from just of few minutes ago when the sky had been an ocean and the sun so bright white that I felt I was almost bleached from the strength of it. 
         
With the setting sun, some deep gray clouds began their quick-clipped roll over head.  Rain would soon follow.  And after the rain, maybe a few hours of sweet relief from this ruthless, torrid air that somehow managed to oppress me from the outside, in.
         
The first drips were falling by the time we made it back to the overloaded campground.  Thirty seconds later, the rain was so fierce that I was thankful for the thin shelter of my tent.  Pelts of rain and fierce wind threatened to wash us away, but somehow my tent and I survived.  We all did. The storm left almost as quickly as it had appeared and behind it, its glorious gift.  Cooler, less sultry air.
         
It seemed the whole campground was coming back to life then.  Everyone began emerging from their tents and campers, energized by the lighter air.  The noises grew louder as camp life returned.  There was talking, laughing, clanking, shrieking of children, people preparing for the night.  I could smell the smoke from other sites as the campers lit their flames.  The guys and I got busy building our own campfire and a few of us cleaned our prized catches for dinner.  Night was coming.
         
And then night was there. 
         
Black hung all around except for the tangerine glow from the fires scattered around us.  The six of us were gathered round ours in canvas chairs.  Our stomachs were full and our skin was tight and burning from our day on the water.  We were passing around our thoughts about the day and jokes about the past, when suddenly an unknown voice began weaving its way through each campsite, slowly wrapping us all up with its melodies. 
         
Somewhere out there was a man with a voice like Aaron Neville.  Strong, loud and highly hypnotic.  He was singing a song that I couldn’t place, but after just a few notes, I sat up to get a better vantage point for listening.  And then the drunken jeers began.  Whoops and hollers from good-ole boys that had a little too much beer that day.  They laughed and shouted out for the voice to go away, but quickly quit their booming tirade.  They must have been getting slapped and shushed by those around them.  I silently thanked whoever silenced them. 
         
The voice never faltered, though, even while being barraged by those men.  The voice only gained in strength and soon it had me totally entranced.  Its power and might laying heavy on me like the humidity had earlier.  I slowly glanced at my friends and knew that they were feeling the same thing. Their faces were turned toward the soulful man's voice and their movements were suspended by this almost sacred moment. In fact, the whole campground seemed to be frozen in time.  All around me were firelit faces and stillness. Even the chirping crickets were honoring him with their pause.  We were all mystified by this strangers’ voice and this song of his.  And the night.
         
When the voice wound down to the end of its magic and then its silence, I could not speak or even move. The whole campground remained in silence for a few seconds and then slow, scattered applause broke out.  The clapping became infectious and soon I was able to join in.  We all stood and clapped and begged for more.  But the voice did not return.

We screamed and pleaded...but still no more. 
         
The voice was gone.
         
Sixteen years have passed since that camping trip with the guys.  Although we had other trips down rivers and more evenings spent around fires, we never had another night like that one.  We’ve often talked about the perfection of what we witnessed.  Not with our eyes, but with our skin and our ears and our minds.  We talked about the welcomed coolness after the storm and how that voice gave us such a gift with its song in the night.  Its one, breathtaking song in the night.



***My husband has recalled this memory of his a few times over the years.  When he recently reminded me of this special night, I told him what a wonderful story it would make.  He looked at me with a smile and said, "It's yours."  Thank you, Donny, for sharing your memories with me and for allowing me to tell your tale.***