I’ve always been enchanted by midsummer nights here in the Midwest. Maybe because I remember the summers when we came to the U.S. from Belgium and we gathered with my mother’s circle letter friends. Since their graduation from college, my mother and seven of her college women friends kept in touch through a letter that circled around to each of them once or twice a year.
We always knew when the letter arrived at our house in Belgium because it didn’t look like any other mail. The envelope was fat, with extra stamps and slightly bent from being handled then flown then carried to our house by our postman. My mother would set it aside to read once her daily work was done. Then she would find a relaxing spot on the couch and slowly pour over each letter with its sometimes good, sometimes sad but always interesting news from her friends across the pond. Her last letter to them would be included and would remind us of what had happened in our family since the last letter. Sometimes she would read us excerpts or at least give us a summary of what was going on in each family grouping. Then, she would sit at her desk, pull out the lightweight blue writing paper and her ink pen and write a full page or two to include with the rest of the letters to send along to the next person on the list.
When we came back to the U.S. to visit, our growing family would frequently meet up with their growing families. The parents became Aunts and Uncles to us, their children became our cousins. And since the women were all in the same age group, their children also were. When the families would gather, there would immediately be friends my age to play with.
At least twice, I remember midsummer night gatherings with typical picnic food spread on a large table covered by a summery tablecloth. Since I didn’t live in the U.S., the food was part of the delight. Things I wouldn’t normally eat like corn on the cob and watermelon and hamburgers and bread and butter pickles became an extra special treat. After the meal, the adults sat in the large backyards, leisurely talking and joking, as the children played their hearts out in and around the house. Games of Hide and Seek or Kick the Can could last for what seemed like hours as the sun set and twilight arrived accompanied by the magical blinking of fireflies. By then, we would all slowly troop back to the main yard where the adults were slowly gathering up the supper dishes and the lawn chairs.
At the end of these events, there were always hugs and smiles as each family herded themselves together and trudged out to the waiting cars. The kids were tired out, the parents were all caught up on each other’s lives. But mainly, we were all filled to the brim with life. As I sat in the back seat on the drive home, I could hear my parents slowly rehashing some of the news they’d gleaned as I tried to keep my eyes open as long as I could.
Of the group of eight women, two still remain on this earth after 74 years of writing. I’m glad that I could be a small part of this circle. So when the first fireflies appear, there’s a sweetness in my heart, remembering those childhood nights.