Compline

   
           "Well, Katy-did, there's a full moon out tonight.  It's supposed to be a fine day tomorrow and it's been a while since I went out on Buckeye Lake.  I think it just may be a good mornin' for fishin.'"
           I quickly glanced up at my grandpa, eager for his next words. The other grandchildren tumbled about in various alcoves of the old Craftsman style home. My place was in the bright warmth of the kitchen near our family's patriarch. This evening I sat playing jacks on the linoleum while he fiddled with his tobacco, his thick calloused fingers deftly pinching the dried leaves. Tufts of white hair spilled over the sleeveless t-shirt that he wore on hot summer nights. I was his first grandchild, his favorite, the apple of his eye, and he spoiled me shamelessly. I adored him.

          He took a minute, tapping his pipe on the table, and then turned toward me with a smile; his gravelly voice confirmed my hopes. "Do you think you and the boys could find me some night crawlers tonight?"
          I jumped up and ran to hug his neck, his rough whiskers scraping against my cheek like sandpaper.
          "Yes, yes, yes!" I cried over my shoulder as I bolted into the next room to find my cousins.

          Night crawler hunting - was this a universal pleasure, or something unique to middle class rural Ohio? It was one of the joys of my childhood, as much a ritual of lazy summer days as the tinkling liturgy of the ice cream truck cruising down the cobblestone streets. It meant staying up late and running around the front yard, the damp grass slippery beneath our bare toes. The fireflies softly lit the night as the sounds of our parents laughing over cards drifted through the screen door and floated into the darkness. The sweet scent of four o'clocks and roses mingled with the lingering baked tar smell left over from the afternoon's blistering heat. The boundary between heaven and earth blurred a little in those days of yesteryear, the Maker of both granting safe passage into the night.
         "David! Mike! Come on! Grandpa's goin' fishin' tomorrow." I didn't have to explain. My cousins tore through the house, leaving a small wave of destruction in their wake, their racket startling the baby sleeping in the bassinet in the living room. Her howls of injustice were drowned out by the adolescent battle cry.
          The brothers were bare-chested and dark, warm bronzed skin streaked with the day's dirt and sweat. Their matching crew cuts and freckled faces belied the differences in their personalities. David was thicker and more thoughtful, stoic even. Mike was gangly and unruly, a hyperactive child long before such labels were in vogue.
          The boys and I raced around the yard, equipped with flashlights, peering intently between the blades of grass. The worms were elusive and we were diligent. Nimble childish fingers quickly grabbed hold, the slimy creatures wriggling desperately to escape. Occasionally one slithered back into the blackness of the earth. Even so, our galvanized bucket slowly filled, and the minutes ticked deeper into night. The soft surroundings whispered peace as cricket choirs chirped their requiems.
          This evening, my cousins whooped out a victory chant as we marched into the brightness of the florescent-lit kitchen. We laid our spoils – a bucketful of squirming, snuff-colored catfish morsels – at our grandpa's feet. Squealing with delight, we grabbed the quarters he shelled out as bounty. David and Mike bolted back to the GI Joes they had left poised for battle in the living room. I, on the other hand, lingered near the formica table.

          "Come here, Princess. " I climbed up into the old man's lap, snuggling into the warmth of his chest. The comforting scent of Old Spice, the echo of his heartbeat, and the soft rhythms of the night stilled my wild careening spirit. I drifted off to sleep, assured of a peaceful night and a perfect end.