Missing out on the celestial show

After cloudy skies over the Avalon Peninsula on eclipse day, I’m waiting breathlessly for the next one in 2044

I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the disappointment.

An anti-depressant the size of a plum, I am convinced, would have been ineffective.

Even a normally medicinal walk with our dog Mister proved to be fruitless, largely because he, too, was in the doldrums.

The brilliant and usually articulate Mister kept mumbling and cursing under his bad breath during our jaunt about “f...in’ clouds” having ruined his day.

I nodded, of course, in total down-in-the-dumps agreement.

'ECLIPSEUS INTERRUPTUS'

Our joint and desperate need of a therapist, of course, as you’ve probably guessed, came about because of our inability here in Flatrock to share with millions of voyeurs the apparently near-orgasmic pleasure of watching the moon pull its powerful shades over the sun as the two most familiar objects in our universe engaged in a few minutes of afternoon delights.

“Eclipseus interruptus” was Mister’s rather bawdy assessment of what had transpired, at least from his viewpoint on the Northern Avalon.

Although shocked by his uncharacteristic crudity, I had to once again acknowledge that Mister was absolutely right on: We missed out on the happening of the century; our lives would never be the same.

SPIRITUAL

Mister’s risque metaphors aside (and mine, as well, I have to admit), there was also a spiritual awakening in some circles to Monday’s phenomenon.

Overcast conditions, in meteorological vernacular – which are far from unusual in our neck of the woods – had prevented Mister and I from gazing at what a fair number of souls apparently believed to have been a gift from the Almighty Himself (or Herself), the Big Guy or Big Gal in the Sky providing a brief spurt of joy for the masses during these tumultuous times.

Oh, the horror of it all – the pure horror of being unable to share in such a blessing.

TV COVERAGE

Nevertheless, there was the television coverage to fall back on, not the same as the real thing, for sure, but I managed to convince Mister, with the aid of an expensive doggie treat, that we should watch journalists from around the world breathlessly (an accurate adverb, as it turned out) recap the “totality” – a word that discovered its moment, or moments, in the sun, so to speak – of the eclipse.

Eventually, of course, after a brief flirtation with CNN, it was the local crowd we gravitated towards, the NTV Evening News, to get a sense of what it was we had missed, what it was we had been told for weeks would be a stirring event, one for the ages.

And, yes, I have to confess to having sold my CBC soul down the drain, and, on the relatively rare occasion I feel an obligation to watch an evening newscast, it’s usually the Geoff Stirling crew that gets my attention; the ratings in recent years tell me I’m far from alone.

EDDIE SHEERR

As it turned out, the boob tube coverage made our loss on this momentous occasion more pronounced as we watched Eddie Sheerr, the province’s best-known weatherman, getting all emotional (his own word), while reporting live from Gander, an ideal location, apparently, to see –and, obviously, feel – the eclipse in all its heavenly glory.

Any second, I expected Eddie to shout “Hallelujah, brothers and sisters!”

Even a “Praise the Lord” would not have been out of order.

(A largely inconsequential aside here, but why are television weather types referred to as “chief” meteorologists? Does it mean there’s a whole crew of meteorologists on staff, that Eddie is on top of a meteorological food chain at NTV? Just wondering.)

In any case, Eddie had what was probably a career high point, and savored it, and milked it, like you would, for all it was worth. A meteorologist’s dream assignment.

WAITING FOR 2044

As for Mister and me, envious as we were of Eddie’s day of rapture, we were left to ponder the proverbial "what if" question.

What if there had been clear skies last Monday?

Would we have been able to don funny-looking glasses and look to the skies in pure exhilaration?

Alas, it was not meant to be.

But, as I said to Mister, in what I hoped was a moment of canine comfort, we can bide our time until the next solar eclipse, scheduled for 2044, and pray there’s not a cloud in the sky on what will obviously be another auspicious day.

I’ll be 94, and he’ll be 22. Can’t wait.