It is dark, the temperature is cooler outside. Things are quiet. Traffic nearby has slowed or vanished. Nothing, as the Christmas poem says, is stirring. Except me. Almost every night, around the witching hour, regardless of where I am or what I'm dreaming about, I am cast up from the depths of sleep into wakefulness like Jonah being “vomited out onto the dry land” of Nineveh by the great fish. I have no idea why this is. We’re in bed most nights by 9:30. Sometimes earlier, rarely later. Even on nights when we get home late and it’s eleven when we turn in, I still come kareening out of sleep at midnight.
It's not completely accurate to suggest that I'm merely waking up a bit. No, in fact, I come awake with a rush, almost as if I have been woken by some alarm or loud nocturnal disruption. I fly up out of bed, step into my house shoes, and quietly sneak out of the bedroom, hoping not to disturb Micki or our pups, and take a stroll around the house, checking doors, peeking out windows, and grumbling under my breath at this weird habit. The tendency usually ends with me having a handful of crackers or some other light snack, a sip of water, and then heading back to bed, where I spend several minutes trying hard to get the Bare blood pressure back to within appropriate sleeping tolerances.
Once, a few weeks ago, at about the same time that I would normally spring awake, a siren blared out front and, gazing through the windows, I noted a police car, it’s electric blue LED lights flashing frenetically, and a hapless driver, going through the rigamarole of a traffic stop quite literally just down the front walk. That really snapped my heart rate into high gear, and it was several quarters of an hour before I calmed down enough to drift back into the serene dreamless. Otherwise, the only disturbance to wake me comes from within. I have spent many a midnight pondering my odd behavioral tick. It has become a bit of a legend in our home, too.
Several years ago, now, when all the kids were staying with us in the unhappy wake of the pandemic, they would remark that the house was haunted. They claimed to see a “shape” wandering around the house, or they would hear doors close or floors squeal under silent tread. They said that there was a restless specter roaming the halls and corridors of our estate. As much as to quote Hamlet's injunction to the ghost of his murdered father unintentionally, they would say—and I’m paraphrasing here—, “rest, rest perturbéd spirit”. I scared them several times as they came down or over (as the case was) to raid the fridge, the larder, or the pantry. I was just sitting there, mournfully munching on leftovers or whatever was available. They would scream, I would feign fright just to take the edge off of the embarrassment, and then I would shuffle off to bed and lie there until the kitchen was quiet again, and then head back to scoop ice cream or chew on meatloaf.
I am sitting here writing this in the depths of the middle night, “This is thy hour, O soul,” as Walt Whitman wrote, and I cannot for the life of me figure out what it is that makes me wake at this time and come “fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, Night, sleep, death and the stars.” It’s not like I set an alarm for it, and many nights I participate in a partisan argument with myself to let me sleep undisturbed, which is what I would like to be doing right now. Instead, I’m in the kitchen, leaning on our counter, munching on crackers and drafting this essay.
I have memories of Pop Bare being up at night, snacking like this, too. He was forever checking the outdoor lights, the door locks, making complicated snacks from various leftovers, and generally hovering in the kitchen at all hours, looking out the windows and wandering about. I can still see him, leaning on the counter, using his peanut butter-laden knife to snag another Ritz cracker from a pile and asking me why I was still up. If I inherited it from him, then I now at least understand why he was up. Whatever it is that wakes us, though, remains a mystery.
I will admit that I have had some truly peaceful moments at midnight. There is something about this dark world when your house is ninety years old. The floors creak and, if you're dedicated, you soon learn which parts make the loudest groans. Other than the timed lights, the house is wrapped in gloom, draining the otherwise brightly colored rooms to shades of grey. The usual scents of flowers, plants, cooking, or baking are gone, replaced by the odor of oiled wood and old books.
Sitting at our kitchen counter with my head propped in my hands, I have sometimes thought that one of the echelons of our venerable ancestors had a job as a night watchman, or drew lots to stand the midnight post upon the chilly battlements. Maybe some unlucky member of a prehistoric tribe or clan had the incredible misfortune to watch the family group as they slept and snuggled, clutching a staff or spear and hoping that the saber-tooth cat wouldn't approach until someone else’s turn to play guard duty. Whatever causes me to blast awake, it must come from some very deep biological imperative, born from eons of necessity and habit. I get this, of course. There is a natural and respectable urge to keep the cubs safe and make sure their mother’s sleep is unperturbed.
When the boys were small, I really did feel a kind of sudden and implacable watchfulness creeping in my veins at night that is most closely associated with a biological imperative. I often heard them cough or groan or whimper or get up for water or to use the potty in the deep watches of the night. I also heard our beloved Trixie growl or whine in her sleep from her bed in the kitchen. When Evan was still quite a little chap, he would sometimes sleepwalk. I caught him a few times and urged him back to bed without waking him. Once, I heard the hall shower switch on and was able to stop him from stepping into the scalding spray in his full sleeping togs. He mumbled something about cereal, and I ushered him to bed and covered him back and stood sentinel until I was sure he was back to sleep, my heart playing a country jig behind my sternum.
Eventually, though, sleep comes back to me, and suddenly, as if shot with a tranquilizer dart, I start to slump and my eyes droop. Then, avoiding the creaky and squeaky parts of the floors, I check the doors, peer out the front windows, and take in the silent and shadowy surroundings before heading back to our room. I scuttle back to our bed, quietly kick off my house shoes, and settle in next to Micki and gently try to get comfy without shaking things up too much. I must fall back to sleep hard, because I rarely wake again unless my bladder is full or our geriatric pug cries to go out.
Until the alarm wails, I’m usually dead to the world, as the saying goes. These last few nights, I have taken my phone off the charger and brought it with me on my midnightly perambulations to jot down the odd things that come to me in the murk of the smallest hour. Whatever it is that wakes me, whether ancient habit or something more prosaic, I have spent countless midnights just like the ghost of Hamlet's father, floating about our old house unseen by most, rambling for reasons that I may never understand until sleep comes back to me. And as I write these last words, I feel the pull of slumber on my bones. I’ll say good night.
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