"Each night when the moon appeared in the sky, I would lie on the ground outside and quietly watch it. I wanted to find out why it was so appealing and likable. I became fascinated with the different shapes that I saw inside the moon. Some nights I saw the head of a man. He had a medium beard and wore a sailor's hat. Other times I saw a man with an ax chopping wood, and sometimes a woman cradling a baby at her breast. Whenever I get a chance to observe the moon now, I still see those same images I saw when I was six, and it pleases me to know that that part of my childhood is still embedded in me." -- Ishmael Beah, in A Long Way Gone: Memiors of a Boy SoldierIsmael Beah has an unmistakable face. I had traveled from Portland to Denver and rushed like crazy to catch the 20 minute flight to Aspen. I was one of the last people to board the plane, and in spite of feeling rushed and out of breath, my heart rate only picked up more when I looked across the aisle and saw Ishmael Beah. I had a back-and-forth dialogue in my head about whether or not it was actually him. What would Ishmael Beah be doing on this tiny plane to Aspen? But I just knew it was him.I settled in, clicked my seatbelt, and sent a couple of texts (to Ted and Julie), both saying the same thing, "I'm almost positive Ishmael Beah is sitting across the aisle from me on this flight." I turned off my phone and finally worked up enough courage to lightly tap his arm to ask if he was who I thought he was. He said yes, and I introduced myself, telling him that I had recently read his book. He asked me the standard fellow-traveler questions of "Where do you live?" and "Why are you going to Aspen?" and then turned back. I knew I couldn't engage him in a conversation since he was sitting across the aisle, one row up from me. It would have been awkward and not at all private. So I wrote him a long note on one of the pages of the airline magazine, telling him how I keep his book on my living room mantle as a reminder of what is important in life and hopefully to get others to read it. And I told him that, as the mother of an African son, I hope one day that Abe will know his story and see him as a model of bravery. I thanked him for telling his story and asked him if he would sign his autograph for me once we landed. He slowly read the note, folded it neatly, put it in his back pocket. He then turned around, smiled, nodded and said, "Sure."When we landed, he quietly gathered his carry-on and walked off the plane, waiting for me on the tarmac. He greeted me with a large smile as I caught up with him, just like the smile on the back cover of the book. The sun was shining brightly on his face. He just kept smiling, and I thought to myself that I'd rarely ever seen a face with such purity. I pulled my black moleskin notebook out of my bag and showed him also a photo our son, which he smiled at widely. He clarified how to spell Abe's name. Then he wrote something that I didn't read until a few hours later.
I pulled the notebook back out after
Courtney and I had eaten dinner, eager to see his autograph and find out what he'd written, "Abe, be like the moon, always. Ishmael Beah."
We went there because of the air conditioning and cheap lunch but came away with a toddler bed. It was time. As soon as it cools off, we're setting it up in Abe's bedroom. 
Hooray for massive-sized hot dogs! I can't figure out if the "*not actual size" is supposed to be funny or if someone would actually think you could get a 50cent hot dog that is 30 feet long.
Abe liked it. A lot.
Word on the street is that the wave is breaking tonight, that it's only supposed to be around 100 tomorrow. That, I think I can take. Every degree counts right?
