Full Moons and Mind Games

My husband and I have this weird habit – wait, come back! Not that kind of weird. It’s the doesn’t-make-sense-but-you-do-it-anyway kind of weird habit. Ever since we moved into our house a little over three years ago, we’ve had this compulsion to look out the windows in our bedroom before going to bed at night. And when we get up during the night. And when we get up in the morning.

I suppose in the beginning, it was just a natural curiosity to check out the neighborhood, but now, more than three years later, we should know what’s generally out there. Still, for some reason, the compulsion remains.

A few weeks ago, while getting ready for bed, I paid tribute to our obsession and peeked out the window on my way into the bathroom for a final potty break for the night. The moon was full and bright, brighter than I’ve seen in a long time. I gawked at it, fascinated, before continuing with my business. I flipped on the bathroom light, and when my gaze caught the person in the mirror, I jerked.

It was me—of course!—but it ... wasn’t. I don’t know how to explain it, but it was like I was looking at someone else in the mirror. Like I recognized the face—the bone structure, the coloring—but the person, the soul inside, was a stranger. Very odd. It gave me the creeps, big time. But I shook it off and continued on with my nightly rituals.

When I crawled into bed a few minutes later, my hubby flipped over to give me a good-night kiss. I looked at him, and I jerked.

It was him—of course!—but it wasn’t. Just like with my image in the mirror, I recognized his face, but I felt a terrible void when I tried to connect that picture with the person inside. Rationally, I knew it was my husband, the man I’d married when I was barely legal, the man who’d fathered my two sons and who’d stood with me through all the storms over the years. Our lips met. I recognized the touch, the texture, the same way I recognized his unique scent, and told myself to snap out of it.

Still, after I lay my head on the pillow, I couldn’t stop staring at him as he drifted off to sleep. No matter how hard I squinted, no matter how many memories I dredged up, from our first meeting to dinner that night, the sensation remained that I was sleeping with a stranger.

For a long while I lay awake, my heart slamming against my ribs. Was I losing my mind? Had some cosmic shift in the space-time continuum transported me to an alternate universe? Finally, I convinced myself that the woman in the mirror must know the man in the bed, so I turned over and cuddled next to him, and I fell asleep.

In the morning, all was well. I was me, and he was him, but the terror of the night remained, shadowed in the recesses of my mind. Had I myself fallen victim to Full Moon Madness? Was the whole thing a dream? I’ll never know. I only know that the brain is a powerful organ—more powerful than we know, I’m sure—and if nothing else, mine was playing games that night.

Sweet dreams, everyone!

Leah writes stories of romance and suspense, and the enduring power of love. Watch for her latest story, Christmas Dance, this holiday season.

Visit Leah at www.leahstjames.com. 

Blue Moon Sadness

Hi, all -- I'm back to talk about the crazy things that happen when the moon is full.  

Our most recent full moon fell on the final day of August. It wasn’t just a full moon, it was a special full moon – a “blue moon.” If you’re like me, the phrase “blue moon” makes you think of song lyrics more than lunar calendars, so if you’re like me, you immediately hit the Google search to find out just what makes a moon so blue.

What I discovered is that there are two circumstances which cause a full moon to be declared blue. The first, as in our August 31^st moon, designates a moon “blue” if it’s the second full moon in a month. (In August, we had full moons on the 1^st and the 31^st .) The alternate definition applies when there are four full moons in a three-month season, in which case the third of the four full moons is considered “blue.” Why the third full moon and not the fourth? You got me, and it makes my head fog up to try to figure it out (…much like the whole space-time continuum pickle).

What I still can’t figure out, though, is why “blue,” a color synonymous with sadness or melancholy? Does having an extra full moon appear in a certain period of time alter our moods, make us shift into low gear, like that big rock’s gravitational pull on the seas to low tide?

I thought about that the next day. It was the first day of a nice, long weekend. I should have woken feeling refreshed and energized. Instead, I got up feeling foggy-brained, as if that moon had messed with my head during the night…or maybe it was the aliens. In any event, I rushed about my business, forgetting where I was going half the time and wondering what I was doing there once I arrived. I left my cell phone at home, my coupon clutch at the store, and by the end of the day, felt that I’d accomplished  nothing. One-third of my holiday weekend had vanished, leaving me with little to show for it. That left me feeling, well…blue.

I’m usually a happy person. I don’t like feeling blue, but if I find myself in that state, I try to do something to cheer myself up, like call my sister or a girlfriend who’ll make me laugh and forget about whatever it is making me sad. Sometimes, though, I’m so blue, I just need to indulge the feeling, if only for a little while.

So instead of calling my sister or a girlfriend that night, I zoned out watching videos on YouTube, and pretty soon I felt better, because what did I find but a video of my favorite singer performing one of my favorite ballads. 

If there’s anyone out there having a blue-moon night, give a listen to Toby Keith and this version of "Does That Blue Moon Ever Shine On You?". He understands. You might even laugh and forget about whatever is making you sad.

Leah writes stories of romance and suspense, and the enduring power of love. 

You can visit her at www.leahstjames.com.

Full Red Haze Moon Madness

This month I didn’t have an opportunity to observe particularly odd behavior that I might credit to lunar effects. I was driving from Pennsylvania to Virginia on the interstate system, and it was impossible to isolate what might have been full-moon madness compared to normal crazed driving. So this month, sticking with a “Back to School” theme, I thought I’d talk a little about moon trivia.

For example, according to the Farmers' Almanac, many Native American tribes assigned names to full moons as a sort of time-tracking tool, a perfect example being the “harvest” moon – time to harvest! August is known as the Full Sturgeon Moon, a nod to the large volumes of sturgeon caught during August by tribes around the Great Lakes and other large bodies of water. Other tribes gave the name Green Corn or Grain moon, obvious agricultural references. My favorite, though, is the Full Red Haze Moon – named because of the reddish tint to the moon as it rises after those hot and hazy days in August.

I mean, what more perfect image could there be for a romance/suspense writer than that of a big, full moon, simmering in a red haze as it rises over, say, the ocean. I can see it so clearly…

On the beach, two lovers kiss,  their skin, slick from the heat of the day, now cooled by breezes sweeping in on the crimson-tipped waves. Engrossed as they are in each other, they never hear the approach of the psychopathic killer who’d observed them earlier while they dined al fresco at a nearby restaurant. Something about our heroine disturbs him.

Maybe it’s her waist-length hair the color of the coal his great-grandfather hauled from the mines back in the day. He knows coal as a dirty, noxious fuel, leaving a cloud of black dust in the air that kills those who breath it. Maybe it’s the way our hero, a handsome young man, brings her hand to his mouth for a kiss. He presses his lips not to the back of her hand, like a gentleman would, but to the center of her palm, while their eyes make love as surely as if they lay together, unclothed, in bed. What makes him so special? Why does he deserve her love? Anyone’s love for that matter? Or maybe it’s how the woman reminds him of that long-ago cheerleader who shunned him in high school. Life was never the same after that.

We’ll never know what sparks our antagonist to act, but something about our heroine fills him with a need to make her suffer, just as he has suffered. He stares at that moon, that big, red ball in the sky, and for a moment it appears to drip blood into the sea. His hands flex with the need to touch the girl, to sample her lush curves so happily on display in the white sundress with fanciful red flowers that look eerily like blood splatter, and briefly he wonders if he's lost his mind.

But no, surely it was destiny that brought him to this place in the world on this particular night. He is there for a purpose, a reason. He moves in. First on the boyfriend. So unaware. So full of youthful passion in the way he clutches her. A quick chop to the back of the head, and the boy-man is down, twitching in the sand. Our killer turns to the girl. She's retreating, her feet kicking up sand as she back-pedals, her eyes rounded, her hands over her open mouth, and screams bubble up, so loud and shrill they must have come from some deep dark place in her soul. Blood gallops through the killer's veins, carried by the excitement of the prize before him, and he laughs at the sheer power of the moment. He moves closer, close enough to see that her cheeks are wet with tears, close enough to smell fear. He reaches, his hands open, claw-like, and grabs for her, and...

Eeeeek!

So sorry, got carried away there for a moment and creeped myself out. I’ll stop now!

Anyway, as I was saying, full moons intrigue me. Am I alone, or does a full moon do something to you as well?

Leah writes stories of romance and suspense, and the enduring power of love. 

You can visit her at www.leahstjames.com.

Beam me up, Scottie! Please!

I’ve always been intrigued by the moon. Maybe my fascination comes from one too many viewings (at too young an age) of reruns of Lon Cheney’s The Wolfman. I remember being petrified that I’d stumble across a wolfman in my own neighborhood, some poor, tormented soul who’d lost his mind and was bent on taking my life! (Okay, so even then my imagination got the better of me.)

Like most people, I’d heard the stories about strange behavior taking place around the full moon, and like most people, I never believed them. Then I started a job in a local media outlet that puts me in direct and daily contact with the public. I quickly realized that there would be days that would stretch the limits of my patience, days where people would exhibit strange behavior (stranger than usual) – cranky, mean, downright miserable complaints about things completely out of anyone's control.  Or sometimes just behavior that makes me shake my head and wonder why people think the way they do.

At first I attributed these odd periodic incidents to simple chance, until one day, in the midst of one such episode, I threw up my hands and said, “What is going on today?! This is crazy!” The response to me from a veteran? “It’s a full moon,” as if that explained it all.

I laughed to myself and quietly pitied the poor sucker who actually bought that theory. Still, never one to discount the voice of experience, I began to pay attention. Now, when people’s behavior is more bizarre than usual, I look at the lunar calendar, and nod in understanding.

This month, we celebrating all things summer vacation-y, so I’ll share a goofy little thing that happened to me last week.

The full moon appeared on July 3^rd, just as we were preparing coverage of our nation’s birthday, fielding lots of questions about fireworks and holiday closings. All routine, all to be expected.

Until I picked up the phone around 10 that morning. I answered with my usual: “Good morning, this is Leah. How can I  help you?”

The caller responded with a tone that put me on alert, her voice crisp and full of an authority that she at least believed she had. “I need the number to CNN,” she said, as if it were a perfectly reasonable request. (I don’t work for CNN. And I’m not in Atlanta. Or Georgia.) Seemed she wanted to check on what fireworks the network would be broadcasting.

Normally I try to help people, figuring it takes longer to turn requests away than it does to just handle them, when I can.  So I said, “We’re not affiliated with CNN, but I’ll be happy to look them up for you.”

When I relayed the phone number to her, she said, “What’s the 4-0-4 number you said?”

I looked at the screen where I’d Googled CNN’s contact page. “That’s their area code. They’re in Atlanta. Georgia.”

“Oh.”  She paused, apparently thinking for a moment, then said, “ Patch me through.”

That stopped me, and I actually shook my head, wondering if I’d heard her correctly. “Patch you through?” I said. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You know, transfer me. To CNN.”

Now I was trying not to laugh, because she was so obviously serious. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This isn’t the phone company. I can’t transfer you.” (Actually, I’m not even sure they can these days!)

I could tell from the loud sigh that huffed across the transmission that I’d annoyed her, but she thanked me.  As I started to replace the receiver, presuming she would be well on her way to finding her answers within seconds, I heard her ask, “Do I have to dial a ‘1’ first?”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, all I could hear was the howl of that poor tormented werewolf, searching for his sanity.

_________________________
 

Leah writes stories of romance and suspense, and the enduring power of love. Please visit Leah at www.leahstjames.com.