The sheer joy of a good story

A story hardly ever travels a straight line. And stories are notorious for picking up hitchhikers — an added bit here, an added bit there.

I have friends — a mother and daughter both named Phyllis, whom I call the Sweet Ps. Mom is 94. I invited myself along on their planned trip to southern Idaho's Dark Sky in mid-August to watch the Perseid Meteor Shower. Not a party crasher, but one more for the fun.

As time drew nearer they realized it was not going to work for them, and phoned me to cancel. I told them we could have a decent view from mine and Terry's deck, right here at home. All was not lost.

But what began as sniffles and a few body aches became full blown Covid — which I had never had. I was shocked, as I hardly even think about the virus anymore. It was obviously thinking about me, and landed me in bed in isolation.

Then began the new antiviral treatment — six a day Paxlovid pills for five days. I had just started these as the Perseid shower was peaking. There was no way the Sweet Ps were catching the show from our deck — and potentially catching more than that from trekking through our house which they'd have to do. By this time Terry was sick, too.

We came up with an inspired plan. They would drive from their home in a nearby locale to the quiet gravel road well below our house about 10:00 p.m., and park down there. I would sit on our deck, from where I could overlook the road and valley beyond. We would have a huge expanse of night sky above us.

They texted, “We're here.” I stepped outside with my flashlight and told Sweet P the younger to turn on hers. Way down there I could see a pinpoint of light. I flicked mine, and they could see up to where I was on the deck. We left our phones on and face down, and spent the next hour conversing while keeping an eye on the sky.

My friend knew a whole lot about the constellations that I did not. It was a perfect night for star gazing — warm and clear, and no moon. She helped me find the Northern Cross — and told me the tale of Cassiopeia, whose sagging W was right above our house.

We had a “blast” exclaiming over the meteors. “I just saw one in front of the Northern Cross.” “One just shot above your house.” “There's one crossing the Big Dipper.” Among us we saw just under twenty in that hour.

None were the spectacular fireball — huge and bright — that had surprised me the previous evening, just as I'd popped outdoors for a quick look. But the “together watching” was so unexpected and creative that I don't think we'd have brought home better meteor memories had we been under southern Idaho's Dark Sky.

That's what I love about a good story. It grows on you.