I’ve always been fascinated by the stars. As a kid, I devoured science fiction novels by John Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, Ursula K. Le Guin, Arthur C. Clarke, and Philip K. Dick. I imagined myself rocketing into space, and, if you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would say an astronomer.
Eventually I set aside those dreams, but when our daughter Maggie was born, I was eager to share them with her. My most vivid memory of those efforts came a few years later, in what I’ve come to call the night of the shooting stars.
That year, the Geminids were predicted to be spectacular, with the best meteor showers in a hundred years. Determined that Maggie, Yvonne, and I would see them, I made a warm bed in the backyard from some lawn chairs and quilts. I woke them at four in the morning, and the three of us stumbled outside. We got into the bed, snuggled up, and gazed at the sky.
Over the next hour, we counted over a hundred shooting stars. Maggie drew pictures of them for the next three days.
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