1960’s – being awakened by Dad in the middle of the night to tiptoe outside in our pajamas and robes. Peering through his precious telescope at some phase of the moon, a night of shooting stars, a constellation visible in that season’s overhead sky, or Neil Armstrong making his one small step for mankind.
1980’s – Bald Mountain, late on a cooling September evening. Watching the shimmering apricot-gold harvest moon rise to fill the eastern sky. Knowing the Ancients worshipped the same mystical sphere countless moons ago.
1990’s – my niece, Ann, visiting from Chicago on a frigid, clear January night. The three of us walking up the hill to Chautauqua Park to watch the lunar eclipse against the backdrop of the eastern plains. Too cold to stay; too mesmerized to leave.
2009 – three-year-old Raquellia as we were cuddling to sleep, “Mima, let’s get up tonight to see La Luna.”
At 3am she sat straight up in bed, shook us awake, “Mima! Papa! La Luna, La Luna” and led us outdoors to receive La Luna’s blessing.