The Third Full Moon Has Passed: The Buck Moon

The third full moon has passed since Dad died beneath the Flower Moon on May 1. I wasn't sure when I began marking time by the full moons that it would feel cathartic, but it has. I don't look forward to these full moons. In fact, as they approach, I find myself becoming more anxious and emotional. But having something that encourages me to move through my grief, both physically and symbolically, has helped. Instead of letting another month simply disappear into paperwork, probate, and the endless work of clearing out a house, the full moon gives me a reason to pause, go somewhere, and remember Dad in a way that feels intentional. This month's moon was the Buck Moon, and after the heaviness of the last few months, I wanted to do something fun that reminded me of him.

Dad and I both had fond memories of our family vacations from when I was growing up, and some of my favorite childhood memories are of riding bikes together while we were on vacation. I hadn't ridden a bike in more than twenty years, so deciding to join the Full Moon Bike Ride in Cape Charles seemed wonderfully symbolic, completely ridiculous, and scary. If something is scary, you should probably do it, right? 

I rented bikes from Make Fast Cycles, and I ended up changing the reservation several times after it became clear that Babushka wasn't going to be able to ride with me. JD could not have been more patient. He rewrote the rental agreement, changed the drop-off location, and walked me through everything without ever making me feel like I was creating extra work for him. Acts of kindness like this will stay with me, especially during seasons when even small accommodations can make an overwhelming day feel manageable. By the start, community riders had gathered for a fun evening ride dressed in colorful clothes, flashing lights, and even a tutu. My ride approach was much more serious. First, I didn’t want to fall because now falling means bruises that won’t heal for months and possibly a broken bone or two. Second, I didn’t want to embarrass myself. I’m not sure why I even care about that. And lastly, I didn’t want to weep. It would not only make riding a bike hard, but I didn’t want to change anyone’s mood.  My tears are emotional releases, not that I am simply sad. It’s complicated and I need to cry sometimes.

My bike was an e-bike, another first for me. I was so intimidated by the idea that I barely used any of its electric features. I spent most of the evening gripping the handlebars far tighter than necessary, convinced that one wrong button would send me flying down the streets of Cape Charles. It wasn't until nearly the end of the five-mile ride that I finally gathered enough courage to try the pedal assist. After all that worrying, I discovered it simply made the ride easier. I could have laughed at myself because it felt like a lesson I probably should have already known. Sometimes we carry more than we need because we're afraid of the very thing designed to help us.

The ride began at the LOVE sign on Bay Avenue, where families, friends, and cyclists gathered as the Buck Moon rose over Cape Charles. There was something comforting about moving together beneath the moonlight. I kept thinking about riding bikes with Dad when I was a little girl and how naturally those memories returned the moment I started pedaling. 

I was so focused on staying upright that I hardly noticed anything around me at first. Then, as we turned onto one of the roads, someone called out, "Hey, check out the moon!" I looked up and there it was, hanging low over Cape Charles. It was enormous and absolutely stunning. At that point, the ride got a bit easier (emotionally! I had forgotten that my butt would hurt from the bike seat.) 

After the ride, Babushka and I walked out onto the pier together. It was a breezy Eastern Shore nights where the wind keeps you cool, and the sound of the waves crashing against the large rocks below was oddly comforting. There were many families our fishing together. We stood there for a while, watching the Buck Moon over the water before heading back.

We stayed at Fisherman at Cape Charles Tiny Livin', and I cannot say enough good things about Eric and Sylvia Hawkins. We arrived early enough to meet Eric while Sylvia was outside painting a beautiful grapevine mural that she continued working on throughout the day. Their tiny home community reflects exactly who they are. They spent years living the tiny lifestyle themselves before creating these restored homes, and every detail shows the care they have put into the property. There are games scattered throughout the grounds, including darts and bean bag toss, what everyone now calls cornhole, and a huge cauldron-shaped fire pit that immediately caught our attention. By the end of our short stay, it felt as though we had been welcomed by friends rather than simply checking into a place to spend the night.

After checking in and before the moonlit ride, I had made an appointment at Moonrise Jewelry. We actually arrived almost an hour early because, as usual, I was worried about getting there on time. They were incredibly accommodating and invited us right in rather than making us wait. I had been thinking about this bracelet for days and knew exactly what I wanted. I designed a permanent bracelet around the twelve full moons that will mark this first year after Dad's death. The bracelet begins with three tiny sequin links that reminded me of miniature moons, representing the Flower Moon, the Strawberry Moon, and now the Buck Moon. A single black crystal separates those first three months from the nine moons still ahead. The remaining nine moons are attached to what had once been Babushka's anklet chain, allowing something she once wore to become part of something entirely new.

There was enough of the anklet remaining that we made matching bracelets to represent what has become our shared journey over these past three months. I truly cannot imagine navigating Dad's illness, his passing, the memorial and now the overwhelming task of clearing the house without the Miller family. Every donation run, every trip to the dump, every unexpected crisis has somehow become a little more manageable because they were there....

Since the Strawberry Moon, my days have been spent sorting through a lifetime. Babushka has made trip after trip to churches and charities so that nothing useful is wasted, while I have become a regular customer at the county dump. Just as we began making progress, a hickory tree fell onto the house. Tony came to the rescue with one of Dad's old chainsaws, cutting the tree apart piece by piece. The limbs are still waiting to be hauled away, which may explain the recurring dreams I've been having about baby copperheads hiding in the garage. They feel symbolic of everything that still lurks beneath the surface, but they're also strangely literal. Probate still hangs over me, there is still so much work to do, and my academic life is about to begin again just as this season of caretaking begins to wind down.

Summer break has not really been a break. It has been a season of burial, probate, sorting, cleaning, paperwork, and trying to honor Dad while preparing for life to keep moving. Tomorrow I will be speaking at the Virginia Writers Club Symposium at Randolph-Macon College. On Tuesday, Haunted Virginia Colleges and Universities is officially released, and that evening I'll be collaborating with the Haunts of Richmond on their Creepy Tales on Campus tour. It all feels wonderfully exciting and completely overwhelming at the same time.

One moment before the end of the Strawberry Moon will stay with me forever. At six o'clock on the morning of July 29, I received the notice that Baby Joseph Pajka's gravestone had finally been installed.

Not once did we visit Dad’s father’s grave without Dad telling me about Baby Joseph and stopping to pray for him. Dad was just a little boy when his baby brother died in their home. He was there in the kitchen with their mother when it happened. Their father was already sick with tuberculosis and would die only two years later. There simply wasn't money for a gravestone, and Baby Joseph rested in an unmarked grave for seventy-nine years. His grave is unmarked no longer. Before what would have been Joseph's eightieth birthday, before the Strawberry Moon had passed, that small promise had finally been kept.

The Buck Moon is named for the time of year when young bucks begin growing new antlers. They are not fully formed yet. They are still covered in velvet, still growing into what they will become. I find comfort in that image because grief isn't something we finish. It changes us slowly, month by month, moon by moon. Three full moons have now passed, and while I still find myself crying without warning and missing Dad every single day, I can also see that something is quietly growing alongside the grief. It isn't replacing it. It never will. But perhaps, like those new antlers, it is teaching me that healing and remembering can exist together.