Not Russia, silly….but the moon. I can see it from my house. Not tonight…the sky is brown from the blowing grit and dust. But last evening, the Texan came inside (from working in his shop) shouting...’Your camera…..git it!’ Expectantly, I swooped up the Nikon and jogged to my backyard. We both pondered the welcome, glowing moon.
It was already a little too high in the sky to get an interesting ‘harvesty’ moon shot, so I improvised. What would the Texan say about this shot?
‘Git the Polaroid. Hot damn !...Roswell doesn’t have anything on us….the aliens have landed!’
The Texan’s matter-of-fact take on this next capture, “Bring the tweezers and the flashlight darlin’!! Put on yer bifocals an’ take this cactus thorn outta my backside.”
The Texan’s not much for dilly-dallying around, or fancy-schmancy stuff. This photo would totally baffle his down-to-earth sensibilities. ‘Girl, you been grazing too long in the loco weed? You smokin’ somethin’ you wanna tell me about? Skies ain’t never bright orange, sweetheart. C’mon, now let’s go back inside….”
Next month, the Texan and I will have looked at the moon together for 34 years. We’ve watched that orb wax by the ocean and in the mountains: we’ve seen it wane on the plains and in the valleys. Don’t know what we’ll do to observe the occasion. Maybe the very best thing we can do is keep looking up.