Randy and I have been sleeping outside for months, now. We are not homeless.
It's not as scary as it sounds, as we sleep on a futon on our screened-in porch which sits on the upper level of our raised ranch home. The futon was one of our first purchases when we moved here, and it was with the intent of becoming "outside sleepers," right off the bat.
You need to know that our home butts up against a metropolitan park which is all woods. While in our upper level, we live among the treetops. At this time of the year, the daytime fall colors of the gloriously-colored leaves give way at night to the rustling of those leaves in the dark wind, and the sounds of the parades of woodsy animals who pass through our yard from dusk to dawn.
There's a bit of a wuss in both of us that requires an electric blanket on this futon, lest you think we are ruggedly withstanding the forces of nature out there. (Randy wants me to interject that HIS side of the futon, if there is such a place, is NOT warmed by said blanket. He is of Hungarian descent, and takes pride that he is already "hot.") (I, however, have reminded HIM that his side has been warmed by a type of osmosis.) Some years we have the foresight and good sense to put the electric blanket on a timer, so it warms up automatically by bedtime. This year we've been too lazy to plug it in, so far.
Our porch has the ambiance of a trailer-trash-pirate's den, as well as being the nightly abode of two fresh air fiends. Hanging glass "witches' balls," a flying fake pelican, and strings of lighted colored balls and chili peppers surround the ceiling of this haven. (It recalls to us a pirate-themed place in the Outer Banks called "Goombas," the most glorious Christmas trees of our childhoods, and a trailer park where we enjoyed a fun weekend with Randy's family members some years ago.) The porch has a personality of its own, though, with wicker chairs, a bistro table, a three-foot-tall standing stuffed flamingo (named "Flo"), and the only fake plant in our home, a large fern in a huge ceramic pot.
One year we managed to sleep out there until December 4th. My nose had frostbite when we finally undid the bed and covered it for the winter that had already begun in earnest. Snow had been blowing onto my frozen face for several nights by then.
The NEXT year, we stayed out there until December the FIFTH.............as a sort of challenge, and just to be able to SAY that we had added a day that year.. (You are hearing it now.) That time my cheeks were also frozen, along with my nose, toes, and fingers, but we stuck it out just for the fun of it. The electric blanket was not keeping up with the bitter cold and the billowing winds. (Not to mention the layer of snow we had to brush off, just to get out of futon....)
We've lived in this house for eight years, and when the realtor revealed this porch, that was when, "We'll take it," escaped both of our mouths. The former owners had left two large Victorian wicker chairs out there, until the deal was sealed. We envisioned, as they had planned, peace and tranquility as we overlooked the forested valley. SOLD!
The back of our home has two large picture windows that take up most of the wall space, allowing us to see the forest most of the time. Our bedroom has the same view, so the porch is not the only location from which to enjoy the scenery: our home decor IS the forest.
But the porch is where "it's happening," especially during the autumn months.
Now, fall leaves carpet the ground, so everything that moves out there is HEARD, even though it may not be SEEN.
After the sun goes down, and we get snuggled down under the warmed-up layers of heavy quilts and blankets, the rustling begins beneath "down under." Below the porch, on a patio, where we served summertime picnic dinners, a raccoon comes and sniffs for any leftovers, and apparently, from the sounds, jumps onto the chairs and table to be sure there's nothing missed.
Deer parade through the yard, or run. Sometimes we sit up and catch a look at antlers in the moonlight. Mostly, they amble through, brushing up against things, shouldering past bushes, pawing the ground, snorting. They SOUND big.
It took awhile to get used to the animal sounds in the leaves, but now I can read a book under the covers, listening to my forest friends making their way across our shared land. There's really nothing to fear, but we have caught a daytime glimpse of a bobcat, and one night a coyote left a very large paw print frozen into the ice on our deck.
The first year outside, we thought that someone had been killed in our back yard, from the hideous screaming we heard. Too afraid to move, we listened until the murderous yells abated. In the light of day we went to the top of the ridge and looked over, searching for "the body," only to see WOODS. This went on for several nights (a serial killer?) until we were informed by another forest-dweller that those screams were made by a fox, to make his prey scurry from its hiding place, to be caught. I suppose some of the screams WERE the prey.........
The other night I awoke at about three A.M. to listen to the sounds of coyotes howling across the valley behind our house. They continued until a neighborhood dog chimed in, destroying the acapella concert which told of hunger, loneliness, and garbage cans shut tightly. Shortly, however, a hoot owl continued the song, from another direction.. a virtual light, night opera.
I always jab Randy in the ribs when there's a new sound out there. Usually he replies with, "I hear it." It makes me wonder if we are really SLEEPING out there, or just enjoying the outdoors with our eyes closed.
A rainy night is THE BEST. I can hardly wait for nightfall to get under the dampish blankets and listen to the leaves and the raindrops! A good storm in the middle of the night can be downright THRILLING.
When I was a little girl, our parents took us to Bridgton, Maine, where we rented a small pine cabin from Foster's Cabins, right on a long lake. We went there for several years, and those were probably the most peaceful times of my childhood. My sleeping spot was a screened-in porch at the side of the cabin, beneath huge pine trees. I would spend quiet afternoons lying on my bed there, coloring, or playing solitaire on a rainy afternoon, smelling the bed of pine needles that covered the entire ground. Listening to the lake noises, smelling an occasional skunk, I was in childhood Heaven.
Small wonder that I sleep on a lumpy futon in the cold night air, listening to the wind and creatures who share this time and space with me now, savoring every moment of it. The good news is that I have a husband who goes along with this crazy nocturnal adventure of sorts, loves the fresh air and sounds, and "gets it."
copyright: KP Gillenwater
