FAMILIAR SOUNDS OF SUMMER

In the large, grassy, playground space, back of the latticed fence, children's voices at play can be heard when the dusky twilight falls and it is heat bearable to be outside again.

Interspersing the laughter, squealing and sometimes arguing will be the dull thud of a kicked ball or sharp crack of a bat. At this particular time it is also firecrackers exploding.

Usually, though, as the darkness deepens, the sounds of playing gradually cease, doors shut and I'm left with pleasant thoughts of how wonderful it is to live where children can play without being in the crossfire of bullets.

Also, as night comes on, the birds cease their songs. Although like a leftover, there may come a sudden short chortle from the martin house. The house is getting crowded, now that the nestlings are growing fast and the parents are there too, at night. Perhaps a skinny foot has been stepped on or a feather turned backward. Maybe some bird mama or papa cannot contain her or his joy in the miracle of a new family and even though it is after dark, a vocal expression escapes.

In the overhanging limbs of the saw-toothed oak, beginning to break out in tiny acorns, a rustling among the leaves may be heard. Perhaps a squirrel is rearranging its bushy tail or a robin is changing positions.

In the flower border and around the old cistern the crickets are tuning up their fiddles and soon will be in full orchestration. Should anyone come stepping up the walk, I could tell by the sudden hush of the crickets. Let even a soft footfall sound be made, five feet away from them, the crickets hush. Do they hear? Or is it some vibration? I've tried many times to slip up on a cricket and have yet to accomplish this.

The cicadas and katydids have not yet joined the night symphony around here, at this writing, but, a night or two more and the decibel will be raised considerably.

What if fireflies made noises? Little intermittent notes as cheerful as their dancing lights? I, fancifully, try to draw imaginary lines like those on a sheet of music only a lot more, across the darkness of the yard and pretend that the fireflies are notes on the lines and in the spaces. I think such music could not have been played by even Paderewski. Not enough fingers, too many notes.

Continuing my playful game, I look at the arrangement of firefly light and wonder, on my imaginary lines, is that Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus," Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata," or Scott Joplin's "Maple Leaf Rag?"

A cat fight might suddenly interrupt, reminding one, reluctantly, that peace can be interrupted any time. But it ceases and one gets back to the feeling that all is well, at least for a few neighboring yards around.

I miss the sounds of the whippoorwills, bull frogs, tree frogs and occasional bark of a far-off fox, the clang of a cow bell and whinny of a horse that once were part of my summer nights. But I know they're still there, somewhere, and that is comforting.

In the second half century something man-made has joined the orchestra - the sound, or noise of air conditioners going off and on, now here, down there, over yonder. The AC's aren't exactly displeasing when you think of the comfort they bring, but they aren't alive.

When the moon makes shadows, if there is a moon, or when I begin to get sleepy-eyed with the gentle sounds, I go inside, close the door and there is the TV which I'd forgotten to turn off, blaring away, "Now we will bring you up to date on the O.J. Simpson case - vicious murder, blood stains, 15-inch knife, "not guilty," 911, beaten wife, no ski mask, ultimate penalty, race, Grand Jury dismissal...."

REJOICE!