I’m way behind on the bloggable stuff, but I thought I better start with some celestial fun.

Greg and I were coming back home late from errands, and we were both a little tired as we went into the house. We knew home was just a quick stop before going back out to feed a friend’s cat, but I still couldn’t keep from looking at the stars on the way in. I’m nobody’s astronomist, but I’ve always liked looking at constellations, and the night happened to be perfect for it: moonless and cloudless, so that each star just sparkled and the dusty streak of the Milky Way swept right through the middle.

Greg had joined me, but the constellation-spotting is really my little obsession. So how unfair was it that when I looked at him for ONE second, he said, “Hey, look! A falling star!” And I did look, but there’s nothing as black and still as the night sky the second after the falling star. They’re just so quick! You not only have to be in the right place at the right time, but you have to be looking in the right direction and NOT choose that minute to tell your husband something. I had hit three out of four, but I was still a loser in the falling-star-spotting derby. Rats!

After we fed Clementine and bundled back into the car to take care of the kitty, we talked over falling star sightings, and it seemed to me that if I had to count how many I’ve seen in my life, it might be less than five. The problem is that it’s really a very small event –visually, anyway — in a very big sky, and when you just see that dart of white out of the corner of your eye, you don’t know whether it should really count.

While Greg was locking up after cat-feeding, I went back to star-gazing, even if I was feeling a little wronged by my starry friends. Our friend’s house is truly out in the middle of nowhere, and with the sound of the unharvested cornfield rattling in the icy air, I sat against the car and looked up at the glittering black sky. Greg joined me and tried again to get the hang of Orion, which is a constellation so glaringly obvious that every planetarium starts with it. But for some reason, he’s constellation-challenged, and usually gives up.
“Look right there,” I said. “See the lazy H?”

“No.”

“Okay, see the three bright stars that are lined up absolutely straight?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the center of a letter H. Do you see it now?”

“Yes.”

“THAT’S Orion. You have now officially seen Orion. And the fuzzy patch just below the middle of the H is a cluster of stars. And the top left star, right where Orion’s right arm is raised, is Betelgeuse, which means ‘armpit.’ And then if you…”

And then from right below the constellation dropped the biggest! brightest! falling star EVER. It didn’t just last a second; it seemed like it went on for half a minute — more than enough time for Greg to let out a whoop and Grace to shriek like a fan cheering the big touchdown. It made such a bright, long slice that I almost expected to look up and find out that Orion had lost his armpit.

It was SO cool. And I can’t believe the timing — I was finally in the right place at the right time looking in the right direction. And I was talking to my husband, but I got a pass on that, and got to see a gigantic falling star. I’ll probably always remember that now, like I remember the eclipses and comets I’ve seen.

Just some fun, brought to you by the heavenly bodies in the November sky.