MOON GAZING

Last night we observed a rare, ‘Super Blood Moon’ eclipse. It was way-cool, watching the earth’s shadow creep across a moon-so-bright, I had to squint to look straight into it. Under the full shadow, it had in fact a reddish cast. Last night was also the night I met my 19 yr-old granddaughter's man, if you will. I didn’t ask but I presume that John is older than she is, like 25 or 26, has a reliable job, his own home and seems to be alright. I concede to the nature of grandparents when sizing up potential mates for their grand kids; nobody is quite good enough. We watched the lunar eclipse at his place. While watching the moon and seeing the kids, acting more like an old married couple than kids, I thought about a series of novels I read back in the 1970’s, 'The Kent Family Chronicles.' It was the ongoing saga of one man’s journey and by extension, his descendants as they stumbled and plunged through American history. From one generation to the next, through 13 volumes, beginning before the American revolution and spanning World War 2; I was dragged through historically correct times with one Kent or another. It was a good read with historical details that filled in lots of holes in the story of our country. 

As much as it entertained and informed, what lingers from that experience is something I discovered in me rather than what I was reading. A realization kept reoccurring, in every succeeding generation. Whether or not that particular Kent descendant was noble or corrupt, powerful or not, loved or hated; the patriarch, Philip Kent from the first episode was no longer a part of the story. The unfolding odyssey and its characters had little or no correlation to the trials and triumphs of their predecessors. What Jakes did was to introduce characters as children who would assume major roles in later episodes. Then, his task was to slip them into the historical setting as current events required. Each new character fit a new, different story that would stand alone, without the Kent legacy. The Kent legacy as it turns out was simply the unfolding, regardless of where it was going, it had noting to do with what Philip Kent loved or hated, what he did or did not do. 

I think one’s life experience is analogous to a very long string of beads, and any particular bead on the string by nature of its size or color or texture can change the course of its story. Simple things like an innocent kiss or being caught in the rain or losing your keys; they can mark a change in direction that completely changes the story. Our stories all begin at birth but conditions surrounding that event can range from one extreme to another. Still that is the starting point, the backstory has already been established and we have no control over that part. But from then on, our beads are arranged by what we do and by the cards life deals you. It sets the new stage, in the present and we have a new role, with our own lines. Shakespeare knew as well as anyone, “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts.”  Even though our lines are born in our mouths, in the moment, they are not always of our choosing. Between our entrance and exit, life propels us. We get a few chances to choose our lot and pursue a noble purpose but mostly we simply move in a direction that favors pleasure and avoids pain. 

Moon watching the other night, we observed all the good manners and mutual respect. We are nice people, what else? But I drove away thinking about Philip Kent. What, and when did he think about his part in the way his grandchildren aspired and believed, if at all. Still his story was no longer The Story. When he phased out they would have been stringing beads of their own for a long time and his story would be no more than the stuff of, ‘Trivial Pursuit'. Imagine actors, fighting, trying to convince writers to keep their story at the front, even after they exit, rather than the ones coming up the pipe. That isn’t how it works. In Shakespeare’s time, in Philip Kent’s time, in my time, The Story is the one that has action and a future waiting to unfold. So my impression of the new ‘Man’ is nothing more, nothing less than an old man’s take on what is really none of his business; a footnote on a filed away, forgotten page. If her ‘Man’ fits the stereotype of a classic, Knee-jerk Redneck who trusts polarized talk-radio and FOX News for his world view; not my choice but then who am I to object? I’m just the has been whose story is winding down. I take a little comfort in Shakespeare’s line, “. . . in his time one man plays many parts.” Maybe one of us will change. I do trust Gibran when it comes to wisdom and it was Gibran who wrote about children; that they are life’s longing for itself, though they come through us they belong not to us. He said that we can peer through the window into their future but we can’t go there with them. Whatever happens, happens but those beads are on a different string. My string of beads is my story, the one I live and I’m still threading beads as best I can. All I hope for, for my grandchildren, is that when they grow old they can be grateful that life has given them a good ride.