Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

One fair summer evening, in the gloaming of the day, Tink and I were down at Mama’s sitting in the yard swing.

Not a lot was being said. We were just enjoying the quietness and watching the lightning bugs as they prepared for their nightly entertainment. Eyeing one, I remembered childhood summers when I’d take a Mason jar and chase them around the yard, trying to fill my jar. We punched holes in the top so they could breathe until I released them in a blaze of glory back into ink black night.

That led to another summer memory. Night had swept across the Rondarosa. I was looking for Tink but couldn’t find him. I stepped out on the back porch to let the dogs out. Our beagle, Biscuit, though I rescued her from a drain pipe on an icy February day, worships Tink. She jumped from the porch and tail wagging, ran toward the driveway. I know that wag. It’s the one she reserves exclusively for him.

Dew Drop and I followed Biscuit and, sure enough, found Tink. He was lying on his back on the driveway, his fingers intertwined cushioning his head. Contently, he was looking at the sky.

“What are you doin’?” I asked at seeing such an unusual sight.

“I’m looking at the stars.” I looked up and saw nothing different than I had seen most of my life.

“Did one fall?” I asked. “No.”

“Is there an eclipse tonight?”

“No.” “Then, why are you lying in the driveway, lookin’ at ‘em?”

“They’re so beautiful. God’s wonderful creation.” He paused thoughtfully. “In Los Angeles, you can’t see the stars.”

Now, I grew up with lightning bugs, stars, the sun that rose beautifully over our eastern pasture, passed around the house then, “sommers” – depending on the season as to the time—drop, in a blaze of orange and yellow, behind the piney woods to the west.

Sometimes, Mama would say, “Come here, Ronda, I want you to see how beautiful this full moon is.”

To Tink, not having moved one inch from his reclining position, I asked, “You’ve never seen stars?”

“Not in a long time. In Los Angeles, there is so much smog that you can’t see stars. Ever. You have to go out to Joshua Tree or a place far out of the city to see the stars.”

I sat down beside him. I was stunned to hear this. I had been to L.A. over a dozen times but never looked up at the sky.

“You mean to tell me that you can’t see stars in the sky over L.A.”

“No.” He looked around at me. “I bet there are a lot of kids in Los Angeles who have never seen stars in the sky.”

I sat there, stunned and a bit of shame began to creep over me. I had taken for granted beauty that is free to enjoy. I can remember seeing my daddy come out at night. Sometimes I’d hear his old pick-up truck coast into the drive, so I’d walk out on the porch to greet him, not turning on the light, just standing on the step. It comes back to me now how many times, he walked around the truck, stop midway of the tailgate, put his left hand on it, then stand there for a few minutes, looking up at the stars and the moon. Finally, he’d pat the tailgate and walk toward me.

“Hello, little’un.” Too, I can harken back to Mama’s voice on a fine summer’s evening. “Let’s go sit on the porch and watch the traffic.”

We lived on a country road but across the way, you could see tiny specks of vehicles passing on a bigger road. She sat in the glider and I sat on the steps. We were so content, even if we were stringing green beans.

Simple contentment. This we all need more of and less hurrying from here to there.

Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the Stella Bankwell series. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her weekly newsletter.