1212 rick
Rick Watson
I love the time between dusk and nightfall. The other day I’d finished my writing and walked down to the barn to check on things.
I looked off to the west and caught the last glimmer of sunlight as it dipped below the horizon. The limbs of the bare oak and hickory looked like intricate webs against the dissolving light of the evening sky.
I sat down on a bale of hay and tried to take a mental snapshot so that I could pull it up later. It was like looking at one of the great old masters’ paintings — so stunning and yet so easy to dismiss without a second glance.
As I sat there, I could see a flurry of activity in the underbrush. Small birds and chipmunks scurried around to find their place for the night.
I didn’t hear it, but when I looked up in the sky, I could see a jet that was so high it looked as tiny as a mosquito. The sun highlighted the contrail making it look like a trail of rose-colored cotton yarn stretching across the sky.
That time of day seems almost magical. Carlos Castaneda talked about this in one of his books. I don’t recall the quote and I don’t want to butcher his words, but I always feel strangely energized during the time between daylight and nightfall.
For some reason, it reminds me of a feeling I got when I was much younger when I was getting ready to go out on a date. Even if I’d busted it all day long at work, I’d be excited about seeing my girlfriend and going out.
The first date I ever had with my wife, Jilda, was in 1968. I picked her up at dusk, and when we walked out, she was wearing a really short peach-colored skirt. I can remember thinking, “I can’t believe your mama and daddy let you out of the house wearing that skirt.” It seemed to me that her hands hung down below her hemline. Talk about a magical time.
A few years ago, our good friend Wes invited us to celebrate his 40th birthday with him in Las Vegas. You only turn 40 once and we wanted to share the moment with our friend, so we booked the flight and headed west.
At the ground level of Bally’s, where we stayed, there was a concourse that connected it with the Paris Hotel. The concourse was painted to look like that magical hour between daylight and nightfall. As it turns out, that time of day seems to have an energizing effect on a lot of people.
I’m sure the décor of that concourse was no accident. They make money in Las Vegas, and one reason is that they put a great deal of thought into ambience.
I know it was a circuitous path that led this entry from a small farm in Empire, Ala., to Las Vegas, but as I said — that time of day is magical.
