There was a full moon a few days ago which reminded me of the most dramatic full moon I’ve ever witnessed. The drama comes from the time in my life when I saw it. It’s 1971 and I am driving on a pitch-black night on historic Route 66 for the first time in a VW Bug with a small, rear oval window. I am thankful for the end of uphill climb because the car is running out of juice. As I coast downhill the entire rear-view window is filled with bright orange light. Didn’t recognize what I was seeing, so I stopped on the barely visible side of the highway. It was deathly quiet and I’m wearing jeans and a green fatigue shirt emblazoned with my last name. I was fresh out of the Army, wandering across the country trying to find my soul if nothing else. There was the moon and there was me staring at it in the dark, sensing this was one of those moments, but still filled with the anxiety that kept me moving. Fifty years later I have finally stopped. Peace.