Now if Jon (my former editor at Brandon’s, heavily armed with both Harvard and Berkeley credentials) were running the show here, he’d never let me get away with this! 

The entry that you’re about to read — at least, I hope you will — is being presented for the third time.  A senior resident of my “Stories” section, after having been conceived in September,’06, “Looking Up” was beamed over here on 9/17/13, after I succumbed to the spell of  yet another full moon. And now, it’s back again…

Twice was more than enough, Jon would have scowled. You can’t run the same gibberish over and over, he’d bark, pointing out that it was ridiculously out of date. The 16 year old character, he’d heard, grew up and took a job as a deputy press secretary out in Texas.  And he’d mock my wasting good space on something so maudlin, moonstruck, and misbegotten.

But that moon, the tiniest of 2015, this time appearing in my birth sign, is just too hard to resist… and no matter what Jon might tell you… moons are here to stay.

Looking Up

All the way back from the gym, our necks stretched out of the windows to preview the guest of the night.  But no — rooftops, electrical lines, clouds, nothing more.  Had its appearance been canceled?

It’s a bit early, the sky is too light, some celestial tie-ups, my husband explains.

His own impatience surfaces as he looks up and squints.

And just when we planned it all so carefully this time.

Dinner…Gym …. The Big Show.

Our restless 16 year old  is annoyed. Cloud cover spells out a delay, maybe disaster.

We’ll just have to wait till October for the big harvest. And then he makes references to the most talked about Senate primary, and recites numbers, names – all a distraction that my husband brushes aside as he turns the wheel.

“Life is not all politics,” he whispers, as he looks up through the side window.

I’d heard from relatives in New York that last night’s preview – we hadn’t thought to tune in – was a jaw-dropper.  My hopes rose and daytime was just a long, blank page idling before the magic.

Were we alone?  No, another family over the state line was waiting too.

They chose foot traffic over our four-wheeled, hungry search – calling in a pizza for fast fuel. A special back-lit compass and a camera filled their packs.

The Moon.  Our Moon came.

It made a dignified entry as it floated into place. We saw it first, about half-a mile from our house.  It arrived without an echo – opening our hearts, no, enrapturing them. It arrived as we all watched with our heads up.

My husband fired up the engine so we could witness the great Moon from below and behind and beyond.  No secrets between us now, fully staged before our night eyes.  Our waiting transformed to complete joy.   We were moon-lit, drawn inside-out with moon zeal.

Moonologists, I hear, have a name for August moons.

They call it the red sturgeon moon – named for a time when red sturgeon were about.  To non-moonologists,  glorious works as well.

The wait begins again – but we must keep our heads tucked under for many weeks.

The world-famous Harvest Moon arrived on October 6, in every part of the world, taking command of the sky with its orange glow.  The moon set afire.

“Shine on, harvest moon.”    We were there.