Look, up in the sky ... it's history
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- April 6, 2024
- 288
I want to write about the eclipse without making light of it.
See what I did there?
That’s the kind of witty wordplay that’s made me a star, but I’m a paid professional, so don’t try that at home. You’ll put an eye out.
When we left coastal North Carolina for the brown, brown grass of home in early January, I knew our hometown lay directly in the so-called “Path of Totality” and that upward of 100,000 curious sky-gazers were expected to descend upon it, creating the kind of economic boom that had civic leaders doing handsprings.
It didn’t seem to matter that the whole thing would last only three minutes and that the best medical advice was not to look at it directly. The anticipation was generating a momentum all its own, which reminded me of an episode of “The Andy Griffith Show.”
When a Hollywood director happens upon Mayberry, he becomes infatuated with its small-town charm and authentic citizenry, so much so that he decides to use it as the setting for a major movie.
Predictably, Sheriff Taylor is the only person who understands nothing ought to change, that folks just needed to be themselves; however, human nature being what it is, the townsfolk get busy giving the place a face-lift and even plan to cut down the big oak tree, the landmark that had inspired the director in the first place.
Mayberrians (Mayberryites?) buy spiffy new clothes and preen, even as Andy stays in the background, knowing what’s coming.
It is, of course, a total eclipse of the sun, which sends everyone into a panic that results in a mass evacuation, killing the movie.
No … wait. That’s not what happened at all, but it might have.
In ancient times, when the moon floated between the Earth and the sun, causing an unsettling darkness to fall upon the land, turning people into creatures of superstition and creating the rumor the gods had to be very angry at them, they went just a little crazy.
This is where the word “lunatic” had its origin, or so I was taught.
The moon is a wonderfully strange and potent celestial partner, affecting women’s menstrual cycles as well as the ocean’s tides. It also has been the subject of many songs, one of my favorites being “Dancing in the Moonlight,” a 1973 hit by King Harvest, which was on the AM radio in the winter of my senior year in high school.
And then there was Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon,” an astounding album that changed everything. It stayed on the charts for an ungodly amount of time, years and years and years, and was still getting airplay when I was teaching my niece how to read.
“Let’s try these lines,” I said pointing to lyrics on the inner sleeve:
“All that you touch, all that you see,
All that you taste, all that you feel,
All that you love, all that you hate,
All you distrust, all you save … ”
On and on the song went, playing in the background on the stereo, as a 5-year-old girl, whip smart and wonderful, kept reading:
“All that is now, all that is gone,
All that’s to come, and everything under the sun
Is in tune, but the sun is eclipsed by the moon.”
Maybe you had to be there, but I can’t remember very many other moments in my life when I was more grateful to simply be alive.
Which brings us to Monday and the last solar eclipse until 2044.
Not to bring you down, but I probably won’t be around then. I’d be closing in on 90 years old, which is possible, I suppose, but given my nasty habits and way of dealing with the world, it’s unlikely.
And that’s fine; I mean I’ve seen more than my share of heavenly wonders, including the Northern Lights, Perseid meteor showers, the Hale-Bopp comet, full moons, harvest moons, blood moons, hunter’s moons and several lunar eclipses, one of which stands out.
It was a late-summer night, and a group of us — photographers, writers, musicians, very creative folks — had gathered for the show.
There were songs and smoke in the air, convivial conversation, a fire crackling and lawn chairs set up in someone’s backyard, coolers on the ground and music wafting from unseen speakers.
On the outer perimeter, far from what little ambient light there was, stood a telescope on its tripod, pointed toward infinity. As the appointed hour of occlusion drew ever closer and the moon began to disappear behind Earth’s shadow, a hush fell over the yard, and each, in turn, put an eye on the nighttime sky. It was humbling.
I felt small, almost microscopic, as I watched the moon shrink, thinking, “I don’t have the words to describe what I’m seeing.”
Something very much like that might happen on April 8.
I really hope it does, especially for those who have traveled great distances to witness a bit of astral history in our little Mayberry.
But if it’s cloudy, as the predictions have it, so what? There might be a rainbow after a shower, and no one will go blind staring at that.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to find him on Facebook, where there might be a “Bad Moon Rising” … or not.