We stood by the garden overlooking the fields. It was a dark night. Not much happened in the country at night. An occasional possum might show up. The old barn owl might give a hoot. Crickets were chirping and there wasn’t a leaf ruffled by an evening breeze. We stood there in awe and wonder.
Was it a dream? Did it really happen?
The Northern Lights came to visit last week, putting on quite a display. Well, I guess it did. We missed the first night. Old people gotta sleep, you know.
On the second night, we drove and drove trying to find a place to stop so we might see this phenomenon. The lines of cars escaping city lights reminded me of lemmings heading to the cliffs. Every little “pull-off spot” was taken. Cars even stopped in the road searching for a parking place. It was still another hour-plus until we would supposed to see the sky full of dancing colors.
“Let’s go home,” I finally said to my husband. It was past my bedtime, I was hungry, and wouldn’t mind a visit to the bathroom.
We live on a mountain at about 700-feet elevation. There are no street lights in our neighborhood and at the end of our street is a cul-de-sac overlooking the valley. We parked the car eager for the rare event. I had just enough time to dash to the house to...well, you know.
Hum de dum dum. Yawn. Hum de dum dum. Stomach growls. I look at my phone for about the fiftieth time since we had parked (one house down from our house). Show time came and went. Once more I grabbed the phone. Hmm.
It was in the 1950s when I stood with my parent’s watching the lights dance in the northern sky. Was it the imagination of a little girl? No. After investigating, I found that other children had done the same with their parents way back then. They, too, were asking, “Was it real?”
Show time came and went. We were both tired and bored.
“I think I’m going to go home,” I told my husband.
“I’ll drive you.”
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