​I’ll Be Watching You

She was working her way up toward the ceiling, and having a time squeezing herself through whenever she came to a place where the top of the glass panes got too close to the screen. If the old jalousie windows had been closed she’d have done fine, but it was hot, mid-July, and open they were. The air was still. There was no breeze to be had, even this late in the evening; but having those old porch windows opened offered hope that something would stir and cool me off a bit. I watched her for a while, but then my six year old mind drifted to something else; besides, katydids were a dime a dozen on the panhandle of Florida in mid-July.

I was having trouble falling asleep. I wasn't quite scared; maybe nervous, a little uneasy is the best way to put it I suppose. You see this was my first night sleeping solo on Granny’s front porch, and when the world got quiet, my imagination came to life.

Before this Mike, my older brother, had been sleeping out there with me, and to my mind at least the presence of an eight year old tended to keep the monsters at bay; but now here I was, six years old, naked, exposed and more than a little bit concerned for my well-being.

You see Mike and I had been given the option earlier that evening of either staying at Granny Tharpe’s house or heading out to the beach cottage to spend the night with Grandmother Rowell. Now I have always been quick with my words, often to my detriment, but this time my speed came in handy. Before Mike’s first word had cleared leather, I called dibs on Granny’s house, sending him to the sand-spur and palmetto bug capital of northwest Florida: Panama City Beach in the mid-sixties. No harm no fowl though; Mike has always enjoyed having more sand than mud underfoot while I have always preferred the contrary, so Grandma and the beach cottage suited him fine.

That left me alone on the front porch with my overactive imagination and the aforementioned katydid. For the record, it is startling just how loud one of those critters can be in close proximity; but that has no bearing on this story in that my katydid was concentrating on her climbing and kept her own counsel.

As a town settles in for the night and all goes soft and quiet, it is curious how the smallest of sounds can travel distances unimagined during the day. As the darkness deepens and the silence grows, an eerie echo ripens and somehow attaches itself to those previously insignificant sounds. That unearthly echo gives the sounds power, and heady with their newfound authority, they can reach deep into a young boy’s psyche to produce unimagined terrors.

A beagle’s noontime bark becomes the yowling of a dozen hell-hounds deep in the night. The wail of a policeman’s siren becomes the screech of a newly released spirit fresh from the grave. Before long a young mind given free rein is peopled with apparitions and phantoms untold.   

As I mentioned though, in spite of my imaginings, I was more uneasy than scared. Even at that early age, my mother’s desire to raise independent children was bearing some fruit in my life. So as the unconstrained spirits shrieked and the hell-hounds bayed at the moon, the little island that was Tony Rowell drifted off to sleep.

I sat bolt upright in bed as the deafening trumpet blast shattered the night air. The heaving light confused my senses and the quaking under my bed completed the trifecta of terror that seemed to be coming at me from all sides.   
It lasted but a second, and I know that as the fire engine continued its frantic way down 17th Street its heroic tenants were unaware of the traumatized boy they left behind; but traumatized, I was. To this day the sound of a siren late in the evening rekindles this memory, threatening the stillness within.

I lay back down no longer uneasy, but rather terrified and trembling; and it was then that I felt the eyes, those thoughtful eyes, watching me. My grandpa was sitting in an old rocker, cup of coffee in hand, watching over me. I have no idea how long he had been there, but when my eyes met his, he grinned. He never said a word, he just gave a sly smile and nodded; and while my trembling continued unabated for a time, my fear, my terror vanished in an instant.

As the years have passed I have often pondered over this reminiscence of mine. I never asked him and grandpa never offered any explanation as to why, in the middle of the night, he sat sipping coffee while watching over his sleeping grandson. In truth, this occurrence, so vivid in my mind, was never mentioned.

Was grandpa really there, or was my young mind simply seeking comfort in its own imaginings? Was grandpa really there, or did something mystical and amazing take place?

I have no idea, but this I know. As this New Year dawns, there will be struggles; there will be sorrows and when things get tough and fear threatens to overtake you remember the words of the psalmist.

Psalm 121
I lift up my eyes to the hills — where does my help come from?
2 My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.
3 He will not let your foot slip — he who watches over you will not slumber;
4 indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.
5 The LORD watches over you — the LORD is your shade at your right hand;
6 the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night.
7 The LORD will keep you from all harm — he will watch over your life;
8 the LORD will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.
 
Happy New Year
Pastor Tony

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