A Midsummer Night's Dream ... Recalled

I was just watching the news when the weatherman said that tonight was a good night to sleep with the windows open. I immediately thought back to the many hot, summer nights of my childhood in which we would sleep out on our screened porch. We would bring cot beds out there (what happened to cot beds? Aero beds came along, I suppose), and we would fall asleep to the sounds of summer. I loved those sounds. I loved the smells of the plants and trees and flowers and humid air. I loved the peacefulness. I loved the thrill, for sleeping outside was simply different, and different is often synonymous with adventure.

Then there was the true inherent joy of sleeping outside. It was together time in the truest sense. Unlike time where the family watches TV or plays a game, this was that peaceful kind of time -- the kind where you talk about your dreams and fears amidst the moon's watchful beams, where you feel like you are far away from your daily responsibilities, and where you hear one another's deep breathing as one drifts into sleep.

Usually just two or three of us would sleep out there on a given night, my dad most oftentimes being one of the regulars. We all had so much respect for my dad, and with that respect came a certain distance ... there was an element of him being untouchable. Times were just different. It was before it was common for parents to be friends with their children. He was our dad. He was powerful. He was strong. He was a combination of Clint Eastwood and John Wayne and Sean Connery (did he say that or did we?!!). Yet, beside him on a cot, I felt those walls of power didn't exist. He was just someone with whom I was enjoying a beautiful summer night. We all were slightly vulnerable beside Nature's most powerful arms.

They were some of my favorite nights -- some of my favorite experiences. Even if it was hot and sleep wasn't part of my night's plan, I always woke up so rested and happy and peaceful.

I love those memories. I wish they were more tangible. How did we fit out there? What did the porch look like exactly? I have so few pictures of my childhood experiences and of my dad who has not been with us for 18 years. Again, another drastic change compared with today's high-tech ways. Now, if I were to sleep outside with my kids, we would have digital pictures downloaded on Facebook for all of our friends to see. We would have a Flip video of us laughing and being silly. We would have in writing, maybe from mom's blog, memories of "the evening on the porch."

Sometimes I grasp for those memories from my past and come up empty handed. My children will have pictures and videos and writings to detail and re-create those events for them. But, does that make their experiences any more valuable? Does the ability to clearly remember, to recall, make the memory more meaningful? Or is there something extra special about being able to conjure up a small, foggy slice of a childhood memory ... thanks to the words of the evening's weatherman?