Anyone from a city would take note of the greatly enhanced starscape blanketing this tiny northern Wisconsin town on a night like this. When stargazing with cityfolk, it might still be necessary to clarify what they see, however. No that grayish haze directly overhead is not smog, factory smoke, or even light cloud cover. It's an arm of our galaxy. Though, even if the gazer is savvy, and can recognize constellations, they are now challenged by the addition of surrounding stars, once muted by the orange glow of a trillion sodium streetlamps on a canopy of pollution. And as for the astronomically uneducated, bystanders can take amusement in a suburbanite pointing out a satellite, clipping along as they do, and shouting "UFO!"
Shooting stars, as they're called, are infamous for their misconceptions. They've been thought of as actual stars burning out, as well as angels falling. These stories are perpetuated by children whose parents either don't know wiser, or are looking to dazzle the imaginations of their young ones. I probably need not inform the reader that a shooting star is a chunk of rock burning up on entry to the atmosphere like a poorly assembled Earthman's rocketship. And, the phenomenon is closer to home than a distant star's death, or a cherub's expulsion from Heaven.
Also called a falling star, and more scientifically called a meteor, the phenomenon has played on the human notions of God, luck, and magic, probably for eons. The phrase, "catch a falling star," has age of centuries for sure. For many of these centuries, the misnomer could have been the assumed truth--no matter the definition or supposed distance of a star. Attaching romance to the witness of a meteor or occasional meteor shower is harmless to the cynic. And, the odds of a meteor becoming a meteorite, not burning up, and striking the earth, are very small. So, the brilliant streaks in the night sky are a violent and dramatic showing, but ultimately benign. Billy Bragg, folk punk singer of the 1980s sang a lyric: I saw two shooting stars last night / I wished on them but they were only satellites / is it wrong to wish on space hardware? / I wish I wish I wish you'd care.
Tonight, I am on a visit to my mother's retirement home, a few miles north of the handful of streetlamps in the tiny town. It is a crisp, clear night. As I walk outside to smoke cigarettes, the starscape crackles into view. The florescent-lit guest room adjoining the garage constricts my pupils so that I walk out into purple blotches, but my eyes adjust quickly. As I puff, I peer into the night sky. I'm not a follower of classic superstition. A house of broken mirrors or a herd of black cats wouldn't raise my pulse. The number thirteen, I've read, has many more applications than just bad luck. Fountains full of coins may as well be one arm bandits--slot machines.
But I have seen a few falling stars, at least I thought I did. That is, until I began seeing falling stars below the tree line, and even below the horizon. The june bugs were fluttering by the porch light; it was June, and the fireflies, the lightning bugs are out in full swing. In their quests to find mates, they buzz up into the starfield and blink their little thoraces. There is no way to tell the difference. Lightning bugs aren't hard to catch, certainly easier than an actual falling star, meteor that is. Tonight, I don't bother, for I have allowed some of the bugs into my room from the congregation of hymenoptera by the porch light, right above the door. I kill the lights, and bed down. Lines of light streak by my head. I make wishes, on phosphorescent insects. Is it wrong to wish on phosphorescent insects, Billy Bragg?
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