He Missed the Comet but Found a Moment

The three children are in the back seat of the car, softly singing to the radio and feeling kind of spiritual.

“What if God was one of us . . .

“Just a stranger on the bus,

“Trying to make his way home.”

All three were snubbed by the Academy, but still they have agreed to come to the back seat of the family car and perform. Which I think shows a lot of class.

“Yeah . . . yeah . . . yeah, yeah, yeah,

“What if God was one of us. . . .”

We are driving into the mountains on this cool night--amid the chaparral and the wildflowers--to find a great place to view the Hale-Bopp comet. In just a few minutes, we’ll be 6,000 feet up, where it’s clear and dark, a quiet place close to God, a place where you can hear yourself sing.

“Yuck,” the little boy says. “I smell a skunk.”

I explain to the kids that you can’t go into nature without smelling a skunk. They’re everywhere. So a skunk smell is a good smell really, a sign that you are leaving the city’s smog and noise behind.

“I love skunks,” the little red-haired girl says.

“That’s the spirit,” I say.

The kids are well prepared for the trip, their bellies full of car-sickness medication, their brains bursting with visions of the comet. They have already seen it from the house. They have already seen it in the paper. But they have never seen it from a clear mountain vista.

And this car can barely contain the excitement: “Dad, couldn’t we just go to a Dodgers game?” my oldest daughter asks. “That’s outside. That’s nature.”

My patient and lovely daughter is concerned because this little comet outing is not costing me any money. And as an American teenager, she is deeply suspicious of any activity that is free.

“How can nature be so great if it doesn’t have nachos and Dodger Dogs?” she continues.

Such sound reasoning appeals to her younger brother: “Nature should have nachos.”

He and his big sister exchange high fives. They have been away from a TV set for almost an hour and are getting a little restless, here in the family car, 4,000 feet up a mountain.

“I think if we just get to the next pass, we’ll see the comet,” I tell them. “And I assure you, it is a sight you’ll never forget.”

As the radio reception fades, we drive deeper and deeper into the forest. Pretty soon there are no other cars--just a dad and three kids searching for a comet.

“Hey Dad, when Hansel and Gretel got lost, weren’t they going off to see a comet?” the boy asks.

This immediately gets the attention of the little red-haired girl: “Hansel and Gretel?” She has been leaning against the door, writing her name in the foggy window. But when she hears about Hansel and Gretel, she bolts upright.

“Your brother is just joking,” I tell her and scold him.

She doesn’t know what to believe now, here in the forest, a good 30 miles from her mommy. She puts her head in her big sister’s lap.

“Dad’s right. I was just joking,” her now-wizened brother assures her.

But the harm has been done. You can’t take a 5-year-old into the woods and mention Hansel and Gretel. Not even jokingly. The image will stay with her the entire trip. And well into her dreams.

Finally, the mountains begin to part. A mile or two later, we are over the top, where there is nothing but sky.

As the kids put on their shoes, I spot a parking area and pull over. Except for a guy strumming a guitar, we are alone. In California, there is always some guy with a guitar. Could be the same guy; I’m not sure. But he’s everywhere.

The kids grab their flashlights and scramble out of the car, then up a boulder, trying for the best seat in the house--maybe in all of L.A.--for comet-watching. It’s a breathless moment, filled with anticipation and hope.

“Hey Dad, check out those clouds.” The kids are peering up at the sky. They squint. They close one eye; they close the other. Doesn’t make any difference, there’s still nothing but clouds.

“Yep, those are clouds, all right,” the boy says.

The kids are tilted back on the boulder, staring at the sky, waiting for a miracle. They have that blank, impassive look you see on men shopping for housewares with their wives.

The little boy is the first to tire of staring at the clouds. To liven things up, he slides off the boulder and pretends to break his leg.

“My tibia!” he yells. “I think I broke my tibia!”

He hops around holding his leg, pretending to be in agony. Understandably, his sisters consider this great entertainment. To them, he’s a young Jerry Lewis. Gifted. Possibly a genius. And they begin to laugh like crazy people.

“I totally fractured my tibia!” he yells to the guy with the guitar, who immediately packs up and leaves.

One of the girls passes me a small telescope to look at the clouds. I keep waiting for the clouds to part, like they do in the movies, replaced by that incredible comet.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Still nothing. By now, the little boy has broken his other tibia and sprained his tongue. The oldest daughter is asleep in the back seat, no doubt dreaming about Dodger Dogs.

Me, I’m still sitting on the boulder, waiting for the comet. Just me, and the little red-haired girl. I’m wondering if it’s going to snow. She’s wondering if that Hansel and Gretel remark was really true. Every minute or two, she turns around to make sure I’m still here.

“Dad, I like the clouds,” she finally says, grabbing my hand. “Thanks for bringing us to see the clouds.”