Eclipse
“An individual might remain wide-eyed and open to experience—in an enduring state of naivete, and with a capacity to be joyfully surprised until the very end.” (“A Young Artist,” Rebecca Mead, The New Yorker)
A New Moon is new, but I can still hear my dad enthusiastically pointing out the differences between the Big and Little Dippers during our stargazing sessions. My dad was an educator as well as a life-long learner who enjoyed nothing more than sharing his academic enthusiasm. As a child, I never knew that those little moments spent with my dad would influence the paths that have paved my own journey as a wife, a mother, a teacher. Much like Dad, I value teachable moments found in nature rather than just between the pages of a book.
I like to think that the small games of guess the flower that I still play with my adult children will resonate long after our holiday walks down Irish lanes.
Whether standing on the driveway in our suburban neighborhood, on the banks of Crooked Lake, or on an idyllic Irish hillside, I look to the land, the waters, the changing skies, extracting wisdom from the moment. Whether my companion is a fellow seeker of curiosities or not, my enthusiasm cannot be curbed.
Solar Eclipse
In early April, our northeast Ohio neighborhood was directly in the path of totality for the solar eclipse. I tend to become overexcited about celestial events. For days, I may chart lunar cycles anticipating the Strawberry Moon, the Wolf Moon, the Blood Moon, but inevitably clear skies turn cloudy, and my dreams are dashed. In deference to my previous disappointments, I did not get my hopes up about the eclipse, until the clouds parted midmorning of the much-anticipated event.
My husband and I pulled out our Waterford wedding champagne flutes, popped a bottle of Veuve Clicquot chilling since New Year’s Eve 2020, and sat on our deck, awaiting the eclipse. Like most anticipated events in life—Christmas, marriage proposals, the birth of children—the moon crossed the sun with almost breathtaking speed. When we reached totality, I FaceTimed my 91-year-old dad. I wanted him to be part of this celebration. A perpetual child, I ran around the yard showing him the darkness, the disinterest of my spaniel chewing on early spring grass, and my husband sporting his eclipse glasses.
If the birds ceased chirping and dogs stopped barking, I was completely unaware. All I truly remember from this moment is the image of my father enjoying my giddiness as he smiled into the screen. In truth, he cared more about my joy than the eclipse. At the time, I acted on instinct—the need to share the moment with my dad. I did not know that I was laughing with my father during his final spring on earth while a sunlit April day plunged into darkness.
The day after the eclipse, I began my first full-time teaching position since my daughter was born. Having previously taught pre-teens and adults, I was nervous about the fourth-grade energy. Every weekend my husband and I would visit Dad at Crooked Lake. He so enjoyed my tales from the fourth-grade classroom. We laughed over the students’ antics and reminisced about his time as a fourth grader in 1942.
I used my opportunity as a full-time substitute teacher to bring a bit of real-life learning to the classroom. My dad had a letter that he wrote to his Uncle Sam on May 12, 1942. Dad wrote about his accordion lessons and how he was “finally playing Anchors Away with some spirit.” With innocence and deep admiration, he offered his first Holy Communion prayers up for his uncle fighting in the Pacific. Uncle Sam returned home from WWII alive and bearing a bloodstained American flag, hand-stitched and intact.
I brought both the letter and the flag into my classroom as the children were learning about the Danish occupation during WWII. The children touched the flag and smelled the delicate parchment of the letter, amazed that they were the exact same age as my dad, young Norman. They remarked on the 48 stitched stars, which I underscored as proof that the flag was a WWII relic. Ironically, I read that letter to my class on May 12, 2024. The children wrote heartfelt notes to my father questioning what it was like to be a boy during WWII:
“Were you scared when this war began? Your Uncle Sam sounds brave, but I think the coolest thing is the letter!”
“Thank you for letting us see the cool items you have from World War II. The whole class loved it. Everybody thought you had super neat handwriting. I had a great grandpa who fought in the war, and he has many things like you. PS: You did a very good job teaching your daughter. She does a very good job.”
On the weekend that my daughter graduated from law school, I brought the letters to my dad. My last photos are of him reading the letters and smiling—the smile of a happy boy, a loving father, a proud grandfather, a life-long teacher. It is only fitting that my father’s last service as an educator was to touch the hearts and minds of a new generation.
The night my father died, epic rain fell in heavy streams. I was there with Dad, holding his hand, reminding him of his bravery and strength. I begged him to send me a sign when he reached heaven and found Mom. The next day, the rain fell again, but the sky remained sunny, pond grass illuminated with crystalline sparkles. I found myself running to the bank of the lake, looking to the sky once again for wisdom. A beautiful rainbow arced above the house. Shades of blue and violet refused to fade and seemed to grow in strength and vibrancy. I have no doubt that my father orchestrated that brilliant sky. That spring, the sun may have endured an eclipse, but that light was only doused for moments. My father, his wisdom and curiosity, will always be written in the stars.
