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Three Moments of Delight
Jul. 8th, 2005 12:33 amNot Quite Midnight, 2 July
When all the other cousins retired to their tents and the last of the aunts, uncles, and grandfolk retired to their beds in the house, Dan and I broke up the bonfire and stayed to make sure the scattered remnants died down without incident. We blew out the citronella torches and, in the new-moon Adirondack darkness, watched the stars. Nowhere else is the Milky Way so clear. I won the annual meteor count: Sarah 6, Dan 1. When we'd picked out the few familiar constellations we could, we made up our own. (It's a terrier. No, it's a clown. Really? Maybe it's the Pointy-Haired Boss from Dilbert. You think?) And then Dan started looking for the Beltresin constellations--Loom, Vine, Dolphin, and Cart. We didn't find them to our satisfaction. I mean, we found stars we could persuade ourselves to see as looms, vines, dolphins, and carts, but somehow the nouns I'd thrown into the first draft of the manuscript had lodged themselves in our brains in some very particular way, and the constellations we were making up didn't look anything like the ones the characters see when they look at the night sky over Beltresa. How odd, that we both felt so certain of that. Either I married The Right Person, or I've driven him crazy in exactly the way that best suits me.
The First Hour of Full Dark, 4 July
So that Dan could get to work on Tuesday morning, we started the long drive home from the woods on the afternoon of Independence Day. Just as we reached the Garden State Parkway, all the cities and towns of New Jersey started their fireworks at once. (I guess they're glad to have us back, huh? Watch for me, will you? I'm trying to drive here.) We caught Newark's dramatic opening barrage, Nutley and Montclair's first long movements, a spark or two from Clifton, the rich middle of East or possibly West Orange, and all the glorious finales of Union County, with a final blast from Edison. There were a couple of moments when I counted six distinct displays all around us at once. Dan, being an ascetic at heart, drove bravely on, but many of our fellow motorists pulled over to watch. And many other drivers who really should have pulled over didn't. Dangerous, dangerous. I wouldn't time it that way again on purpose, but oh, it was something to see.
After Early Evening Thunderstorms, 6 July
If Meagan the Mariner tells me the lightning is far enough away for swimming, I believe her. Anybody who says the words "my wetsuit" or "my ship" the way most people might say "my shoes" or "my car keys" can probably be trusted about that kind of thing. Frolicking on the beach in the company of a marine biologist means squinting at tiny wiggling dots she's caught in the water cupped in her hands. (Look! Juvenile crabs! Ooh, they're still planktonic!) Perhaps no one in the world is so enthusiastic about aquatic snails as Meagan the Mariner is. For her, each speck in the sea has a name.
When all the other cousins retired to their tents and the last of the aunts, uncles, and grandfolk retired to their beds in the house, Dan and I broke up the bonfire and stayed to make sure the scattered remnants died down without incident. We blew out the citronella torches and, in the new-moon Adirondack darkness, watched the stars. Nowhere else is the Milky Way so clear. I won the annual meteor count: Sarah 6, Dan 1. When we'd picked out the few familiar constellations we could, we made up our own. (It's a terrier. No, it's a clown. Really? Maybe it's the Pointy-Haired Boss from Dilbert. You think?) And then Dan started looking for the Beltresin constellations--Loom, Vine, Dolphin, and Cart. We didn't find them to our satisfaction. I mean, we found stars we could persuade ourselves to see as looms, vines, dolphins, and carts, but somehow the nouns I'd thrown into the first draft of the manuscript had lodged themselves in our brains in some very particular way, and the constellations we were making up didn't look anything like the ones the characters see when they look at the night sky over Beltresa. How odd, that we both felt so certain of that. Either I married The Right Person, or I've driven him crazy in exactly the way that best suits me.
The First Hour of Full Dark, 4 July
So that Dan could get to work on Tuesday morning, we started the long drive home from the woods on the afternoon of Independence Day. Just as we reached the Garden State Parkway, all the cities and towns of New Jersey started their fireworks at once. (I guess they're glad to have us back, huh? Watch for me, will you? I'm trying to drive here.) We caught Newark's dramatic opening barrage, Nutley and Montclair's first long movements, a spark or two from Clifton, the rich middle of East or possibly West Orange, and all the glorious finales of Union County, with a final blast from Edison. There were a couple of moments when I counted six distinct displays all around us at once. Dan, being an ascetic at heart, drove bravely on, but many of our fellow motorists pulled over to watch. And many other drivers who really should have pulled over didn't. Dangerous, dangerous. I wouldn't time it that way again on purpose, but oh, it was something to see.
After Early Evening Thunderstorms, 6 July
If Meagan the Mariner tells me the lightning is far enough away for swimming, I believe her. Anybody who says the words "my wetsuit" or "my ship" the way most people might say "my shoes" or "my car keys" can probably be trusted about that kind of thing. Frolicking on the beach in the company of a marine biologist means squinting at tiny wiggling dots she's caught in the water cupped in her hands. (Look! Juvenile crabs! Ooh, they're still planktonic!) Perhaps no one in the world is so enthusiastic about aquatic snails as Meagan the Mariner is. For her, each speck in the sea has a name.
