Last weekend, December 15th, 2024, I was moonstruck, yes, struck by how high in the sky, more brilliant than a sun at daybreak. It is called a cold moon, showing itself every 19 years or so, yet warms my heart to say, “Carol, look at the full moon!” with an excited voice, like that of a child.
You know, I could write of my USA record (now broken) of most marathons run consecutively by a woman – 36 in 36 months – back in1983, 1984, 1985. But it pales in the light of the high moon that shines my pillow brilliantly as I sleep until surprisingly awakened at 3am to take photographs. Unforgotten.
My dad was an astronomer, who showed me the constellations through his telescope set up in our backyard, but I could not hang onto his enthusiasm as I wish for now tearfully. He is and has become the most brilliant star of my life like an Olympic medal around my neck. (Now listening to YouTube: The Best Thing that Ever Happened to Me sung by Gladys Knight…glad tears running a film of you as my knight in shining…). Dad told the story of when you look at the moon, you are never alone – crying – that wherever you are, we are both under its light, which shines brilliantly our love shared in memory.
I’m rereading the 100 plus letters he wrote to me during my college and early married years, “Please take good care of yourself,” written in some form every letter, like March 20th, 1967, “make sure you get enough sleep and eat properly.” Concluding always with words like “love galore,” or “love, Dad.” Or “love you.” He constantly writes detailed descriptions of family events, and nature, nurturing me daily since his death in 1977 from a sudden heart attack.
No wonder, while perusing East Hill Antiques during the holidays, I see a record player, spinning vinyl – wishing to hear again, Luther Vandross singing, Dance with my Father. Thinking how I bet my dad has the record of the most feelings expressed in his weekly letters than any other dad of the 1960s.