Leave the Light On

July 27, 2007

Moving day was drawing to a close. The van rumbled down the lane leaving us with three hungry children, a frightened cat, and a mountain of boxes to unpack. Our new home seemed vacant and lonely; the nearest neighbor was about a mile down the road. I could see a faint light glimmering through the woods. Presently I heard the crunch of tires on gravel; a small pickup truck pulled in beside the barn. When I opened the door, I was greeted by a warm smile. Our new neighbor, Marian, had brought us dinner, friendship and advice.

My little red address book, full of all the names and numbers a family needs to function, was of no use in this new place. I peppered Marian with questions. Who was a good vet? Where could I find aged manure for the garden? Was there a good plumber in town? I learned with dismay that the nearest dentist was 30 miles away. But Marian assured me that the drive was beautiful.

She was right. As we drove down the valley, the hills were ablaze with autumn colors. Sugar maples bordered the old stone walls and yellow willows hung over the stream that meandered alongside the road. In the golden meadows, cows contentedly grazed. We all decided that our favorites were the belted Galloways, whose wide band of white in the middle of their black bodies made one think of Oreo cookies.

By the time we left Dr. Thomasson’s office, dusk was beginning to settle. As we passed the edge of town, Drew asked, “Why does each house have a Christmas candle in the window when it isn’t even Halloween?”

I remembered that the Syndersville Apple Festival was slated for the coming weekend; we planned to help with the cider pressing. Perhaps this was some sort of tradition, part of the festivities

That evening, when I called the cat in, she did not come. Kate had been confused ever since the move, meowing forlornly as she wandered through the unfamiliar house. The following morning she was still missing.

Then winter closed in. The children worried about Kate and I tried to reassure them that she had probably found a nice warm barn to stay in for the winter. She was hibernating, I said, like a bear.

Mud season delayed the plowing. Spring chores piled up. Finally, one warm March afternoon as the first daffodils were blooming, the children and I headed back to Syndersville to buy new shoes. Sarah couldn’t decide between the red sneakers or the white, and Eleanor took a long time just finding the right pair of party shoes. It was late by the time we left for home. Dusk was beginning to fall.

“Look,” said Eleanor as we neared the outskirts of the village, “those houses still have lights in the window.”

We saw that four or five houses on the left side of the road and three on the right all had a single candle lit. I asked Marian if she knew why and she answered, “It’s the way its always been.” Then she laughed. “That’s a common answer to a lot of questions around here.”

The following month, while the children were being seen by Dr. Thomasson, I asked his nurse if she knew the answer to the mystery. She just shrugged and replied, “That’s the way it has always been.”

I hid a small smile. “Excuse me,” a voice behind me said. I turned around. An elderly lady in a green print dress motioned to me from a sofa in the waiting room.

“Come sit by me,” she said, patting the seat beside her. “I’d be happy to tell you about those candles. I’m Grace Harding and I live in the last house on the left. You know, the little red one?”

“Yes,” I said, “I admired your beautiful bank of forsythia on the way into town.” “Forty years ago, when I married Henry and came to Syndersville, the first people to welcome us were the Johnsons, Clem and Anna. They had the farmhouse set back from the road.”

I had seen the neat, white frame building, set among its barns and outbuildings. It looked sort of like a mother hen surrounded by her chicks.

“They had two sons, Arthur, the elder, a strong helpful boy who took after his father, and James, a quiet sort. He liked to read books. He’s a professor over at the state college now.” She smiled at Sarah, who was sitting beside me, listening intently. “When we began to have children, their daughter, Mary, used to mind them if we went to the cinema.

“Well, the war came along and Arthur signed up. It nearly tore Anna apart, him being her firstborn and all, But he wouldn’t be dissuaded. James stayed home and helped his father run the farm.” She sighed. “A lot of the village boys went off to war.”

Drawing herself back to her story, she continued, “Arthur wrote home regularly and Anna used to read his letters to all the neighbors. She was very proud of him but worried, nonetheless. Mothers do that.”

I nodded in agreement. “About. a year after he’d left, the letters stopped coming. Anna was just frantic. Then a man from the war office came by to tell them that Arthur was missing in action. They didn’t know if he had been taken prisoner or…” Her voice trailed off as she looked at Sarah, who was holding my hand tightly.

“That evening, Anna left the porch light on all night. Told Clem that she wouldn’t turn it off until Arthur came home. A few days later I noticed that Ella Winter, down the road, had left her light on, too. So had the Moores. At twilight, I turned on a small lamp in my front window. It was the least I could do.”

“How long did she have to leave the porch light on?” I asked, half dreading her response.

“Until she died,” she answered in a soft voice. “After Arthur had been reported missing, I went to pay a visit. When I turned to go, I noticed a big piece of tape over the switch to the porch light. Anna looked at it. ‘No one touches that switch,’ she said to me. ‘Clem tried to turn it off one morning but I stopped him. Told him I didn’t care about the electricity.’”

Mrs. Hardin looked at Sarah and continued. “A few years later, those little electric Christmas candles came out and the neighbors and I began burning them in our windows. We left them on for Arthur.” She paused and then added, “And for all the others.”

“The farmhouse still has its porch light on, doesn’t it?” asked Sarah. “Yes, dear,” Mrs. Harding replied. “James lives in his parents’ house now. The tape is still over the switch.”

“Do you think that Arthur might come back someday?” asked Sarah quietly, her face full of worry.

“He might,” Mrs. Harding said quietly. “But he’d be very old, wouldn’t he?” said Sarah. That evening after supper, I heard noises in the attic and felt the cool draft that always means someone has left the door at the top of the stairs open.

“Who’s up there?” I called. “Just me,” Sarah’s muffled voice responded. She came down the stairs with one of our window candles in her hand. “I know it isn’t Christmas yet, but I really want to put this in my window,” she said, with a look that was at once hopeful and resolute.

“For Arthur?” I asked. “Well, sort of,” Sarah said. “But mostly for Kate. Maybe she’s lost and just needs a light to guide her home.”

I could not say no. After I tucked her in, I stood in the doorway and looked at the candle. Two weeks later, Kate returned followed by three kittens. Where she’d been, we’ll never know. We were just glad to have her back.

“Can we leave the light on?” asked Sarah when we settled Kate into her basket. I nodded. For Arthur. And for all the others.

Stories from a Kindred Heart