Another Wolf Moon

Three years, man.

Well, the 19th would be three earth years. But it’s been three Wolf Moons since.

I’m not one for change. Things were established, and then they weren’t. What was that For Sale sign doing up on my lawn? The stupid GPS made me hang ten on a back road with the back wheel of the giant U-Haul on the first trip.

Then it was time to move for good. There’s a death-like feeling when one visits the normal spots for the last time, the bizarre juxtaposition of the eternity of suburbia and the brevity of time. You won’t be here forever. But beige walls and parking lots will be.

How do you say goodbye?

I ate pizza with my brothers at our favorite cruddy restaurant , and struck out into the Unknown.

That Wolf Moon watched me all the way over the mountain pass.

The first post on this blog was about that.

On this fourth Wolf Moon, I stood on a porch that didn’t exist under the last one. Mars had been blotted out, and re-emerged. Telescopes crowded the deck, putting up views like this:

(For the technical details, check out the new Old Light blog.)

After the excitement of the event, the quiet of the night caught up. I looked out over the frosted hayfield, up to the moonlight glinting off the barn roof in the distance, then up to the mountain, the towers blinking a sleepy watch the whole night through.

Three years here, man.

A whole new life: one of sweltering July afternoons with the lazy drone of bees, of words and writing and friends who help over coffee, of magnificent antique telescopes and farmer’s markets, of Jesus and pizza and debates about aliens, of fireflies rising up from rain-soaked ferns, a beautiful sight for sad eyes, of sore knuckles and swinging punching bags, of mostly remembering to ease the clutch off on the tractor, finally learning how to make straight cuts and flat boards, the sawdust sticking to my arms like fur in the sweet Lynchburg humidity, and editors saying “what are you saying, boi?”

I went back home to pay my respects to Pastor John, and think of him often.

I saw ‘em build my house, watched for meteors at the Peaks of Otter, shouted philosophy with buddies in an annoying frat-boy sort of way at the pizza place, finally picked up the banjo to learn (it sounds awful), tried moonshine, heaved the square bales, and planted apple trees. Chickens are punk rock if you ask me. Horses are catty girls.

But you all rock.

And guys–we get to hang out here.

What a treat.

Thank you. Thank you for reading, for writing, and for making it all happen. Thanks for being my new friends, and for the old friends keeping in touch and sharing in the fun.

The tower is still blinking high up on the ridge. The waning moon is casting her feeble light over a silent land. Even the owls are quiet.

It’s cold.

It’s been a good three Wolf-years.

I’m glad I tried it.

Here’s to the next three.

–Josh

Sitting in the envisioned living room with my brother, Thanksgiving 2023.