Full Moon Rising

We hurtle from event to event, class to class, meeting to meeting, appointment to appointment, then get up the next morning and do it all over again, often with far too little sleep and, for some, far too much caffeine. Meet one deadline. Another stares us squarely in the face. The devices created to simplify our lives only complicate them. Faster! Faster! Faster! might work in a footrace, but the notion is counterproductive when you find yourself, as I often do, trying to carve out even a few unfettered minutes for reflective thinking.

 

Then came a Saturday evening this past September that provided a welcome respite from the craziness of the world.

 

This memorable “snapshot in time” occurred in the Prince Edward County village of Rice as my son David and I relaxed on the front lawn of a farm house on a pastoral expanse that’s been in our family for more than a century.

 

Nearby, Dave’s son Wyatt was roasting marshmallows and bouncing around the yard as six-year-olds are prone to do. Inside, Emily and Angie, Dave’s fiancé, were cleaning up after dinner and distancing themselves from the bugs.

 

The clear, cool evening was peaceful and therapeutic. Only the sounds coming from the woods and from cars speeding along the highway a half-mile away disturbed the silence. A million stars sparkled brilliantly overhead.

 

Dave and I were sitting on a slight rise and looking toward the east pasture when we saw a light begin to glow just over a line of loblolly pines in the distance.

 

High beams? I immediately thought. No, can’t be. There’s no road in that direction. A spotlight from Burkeville seven miles away? Not that, either. The angle isn’t right.

 

Just then, Dave sat up straight in his chair.

 

“Dude!” he exclaimed. “It’s the moon rising! Awesome! Look, Wyatt! Go get Grandma! Go get Angie!”

 

There we remained, awe-struck and in silence – or as much silence as you can expect when you’re in the company of an excited, energetic, curious first grader – watching, reflecting, and savoring the moment as the gorgeous full moon gradually revealed itself, then began its spectacular, elegant ascent into the night sky.

 

My Dad, now 101 years old, grew up on that farm. He ran errands for the field hands until he was old enough to work the fields himself. He thrived on hard labor. He found joy in planting, cultivating, and harvesting the crops. He loved the culture and the ambiance. And in curing season, he loved sitting on a wooden crate beside the old tobacco barn and watching that same gigantic golden orb magically emerge from the horizon and illuminate the countryside.

 

Now, for a snippet of time, I was seeing what he had seen, experiencing what he had experienced, and sensing the wonder that he must have sensed all those years ago.

 

In 1932, my Dad left home for Virginia Tech. He served in the Army during World War II and earned a Bronze Star, then settled in Norfolk, then moved to Richmond when he finally retired at 85.

 

Truth be told, though, he never really left his farm. Neither has he forgotten in these high-speed, dangerous, bitterly divisive times where reason and common sense are at a premium the time-honored values instilled in him on that hallowed ground whence we witnessed nature’s radiance and grandeur.

 

For a moment that September Saturday night, the world wasn’t complicated or unpredictable. It wasn’t inexplicable or unfathomable or the least bit frightening. It was simple, uncluttered, peaceful and very, very safe. For a moment, the world was as perfect as it would ever be.

         -- Weldon Bradshaw