The Music of the Voices Below
Echoes from the Three-Decker Porch
The heat that smothered us over the past few days reminded me of how we handled the summer weather when I was a kid. It was oppressive, but it meant we were surrounded by the season we loved.
Summer nights in the third-floor bedroom of the three-decker on Wealth Avenue were hot, very hot. We passed the days frying an egg on the sidewalk, cooling under sprinklers, or swimming at the Olneyville Boys Club pool. We scraped hot tar off the steaming streets to roll into sticky tar balls.
It was scorching enough for the sewing bees to stop their needles and for the lightning bugs to slow down on their evening soirees.
Some summers we were lucky enough to rent a cabin on the Narragansett shore.
With neither fans nor air conditioners, our bedroom was a clammy oven. Sleep, even shirtless and sheetless, was impossible. The adjacent homes were built so close that no breeze, if one ever came along, could trickle in. Yet, those stifling nights were comforted by a distinct neighborhood soundtrack: the murmuring voices of the adults close by.
Hearing soft chatter from the first-floor porch below, Peter and I decided to explore, to follow the murmurs and soft laughter, ignoring our orders to go to bed. The heat drove the adults out of their beds and to their porches and sidewalks.
Attracted to the sound like bees to honey, we rolled out of bed and snuck down the stairs to sit on the porch floor, invisible just off to the side. Mom, Aunt Della, and Grandma glanced at us but continued talking. Dad, Uncle Carl, and Grandpa were absent, trying to sleep in anticipation of their early morning rise.
As I remember, Mom was in her pajamas, Aunt Della in a nightgown, and Grandma, though in a housedress, broke her formality by wearing backless black slippers and no stockings.
Layers of stars dotted the crystal night. From a nearby streetlight, bugs flickered to tap the light’s metal hat. Low, rumbling conversations drifted from neighbors sitting across the narrow street or next door, all doing the same thing: chatting away the heat.
Something else glowed, but not a firefly. Idle puffs of smoke drifted into the air.
People were making the best of a hot evening, knowing they were all in the same circumstances. The heat was tough, but not as tough as the workday, and certainly not as tough as making their way in a new country.
Nothing we heard was of real interest to us. Mom, Grandma, and Aunt Della seemed to be just repeating the same things they had already talked about during the day. However, just listening, being there, liberated, was enough.
The sounds were soothing and comforting. People made the best of the hot evening, understanding they were all in the same circumstances.
We sat perfectly still and listened, gently smushing the occasional mosquito and rubbing off the blood. We wanted to hang out, to be a part of the neighborhood’s family, and to endure the heat together. And in those moments, we were a part of it.
“Time for bed, kids.”
Ah, they noticed us. There was no squabble. Up the stairs and back to the oven we trudged. I got into bed and looked at the clock. It was eleven. My goodness, I had stayed up late, just like an adult.
At last, we dozed to the ambient song and susurrus sounds of speech below.
I loved those summer evenings almost as much as the days.
© 2026
I posted this and the temperature plummeted 30 degrees today