In the summer of 2000, right after I graduated, and before I moved to Chicago, I was living with mom and dad, way the hell south of Buffalo. One night I was driving home at about 3am (go ahead, make the inference) and as I was pulling into the driveway I realized the sky was lit up with the most distinct northern lights I’d ever seen.
On the rare occasion that the Aurora Borealis made it to Western New York, it was faint, and just along the horizon. Usually, it was covered by the trees. But not that night. For some reason, I happened to look up during the celestial equivalent of the Perfect Storm.
Not only did my sky look like that long hallway in Chicago’s O’Hare Airport because of the northern lights, but there was also a meteor shower adding a pizzicato effect. It was religious. Thank God I was already home when I saw it, because otherwise I’d have stopped on the 400 to ogle
I should (again) draw your attention to the fact that this was just after graduation and just before moving away from home. And, yes, inferrers, that I’d been drinking. My mind was sort of geared up, looking for signs and omens and flashing neon signs. Am I making the right move? Am I where I’m supposed to be? Shouldn’t I forget about this acting stuff, look up that Lisa girl’s phone number and marry her?
Okay, that last one wasn’t really on my mind, in so many words, but that summer was rather philosophical for me.
I just read that the borealis will be viewable tonight from a few lucky northern states. New York, unfortunately, isn’t one of them. I’ll be looking anyway. I’m happy where I am, but God knows I’ll take a flashing neon sign whenever I can get it.
1 year ago