May 18, 1980
A memory: 45 years later | retelling my personal experience of an event I will never forget.
It started as an average Sunday morning. Dad was down south (relatively speaking) on official training business with his National Guard buddies. Not that I had any understanding of what any of that meant. And certainly not because I was a year old, and two days from my second birthday. I'd just never been there to see for myself. I'd spent plenty of time at the local armory having lunch with him and his buddies, and Mom. I was always a sharp kid, too sharp for my own good. All I knew was that Dad was away again, so Mom and I were at Granny's house (Mom's Mom) with her and my Aunt. My sister wouldn't join us out here in the big room for another couple of months.
It was a beautiful spring morning. The sun rose into a cloudless sky marked by a few jet contrails between Denver and Seattle crossed by others coming from, and going to, places unknown.
The robin's had returned some weeks earlier. My Aunt (Mom's sister, who was more like a big sister to me in those days), and I busied ourselves watching them dive for worms in the dewy grass of the front yard.
“Ooh, look at that one. He got himself a fatty!” She said.
I laughed because it sounded funny. She laughed too, likely for other reasons, but he had indeed gotten himself a fatty for breakfast that beautiful spring morning.
I don't recall what I ate for breakfast. Likely a bowl of dry cereal. Cheerios, perhaps. Followed by a bottle of formula. Who knows? The TV was on and I was fully engrossed in the usual Sunday morning shows while we waited for Dad to call.
I do remember the show cut out at one point, a little after 8:30, interrupted by the emergency broadcast system notifying, we the viewing audience, that a large earthquake and subsequent eruption had occurred at Mount St. Helens.
The ladies of the house exchanged looks of shock and worry. I'd seen enough of life by then to know that whatever had happened was serious enough to warrant paying attention.
Then the phone rang. It was Dad checking in. Mom and that phone were my whole world in that moment.
“Yes, we saw the news on the TV. Are they going to send you over there to help? OK, well keep us posted if you can. We'll keep the news on for updates. Stay safe.”
Mom hung up the phone and turned, greeted by three expectant wide-eyed faces searching her expression for the slightest clue.
“Well?” my Aunt finally broke the suspense.
“They haven't been notified of anything yet, but he says if they get the call he'll try to call us before they head out.”
We spent the next hour or so flipping through channels looking for news updates, most of which were simple repetitions of what was already known with new information sprinkled in as it became available (plus ça change…).
We eventually learned that the ash cloud was drifting downwind, heading straight for us, which stirred up a whole new dose of anxieties. The images on the news of areas much closer to the eruption had everyone anticipating the worst. Speculation flying wild. Nerves wearing ever thinner. And then we saw it… A dark smudge looming along the western horizon. Small at first, but visibly growing wider and closer, until it was over head, continuing east.
Over the few hours after the eruption traffic picked up as folks ran their Sunday errands. The dew long since evaporated, the birds who spent their morning chirping and frolicking began to fall silent, disappearing with the dimming daylight as the ash cloud blacked out the entire sky. Day turned to night. Street lights came back on, and it wasn't even lunch time yet.
I was allowed to play in the yard, to witness these events with Mom and my Aunt (Granny periodically stepped out to check on things) up until the ash began to drift down on us. The news had already warned everyone to stay indoors to avoid breathing in the glass and pumice laced ash, and to avoid traveling unless absolutely necessary.
Through the window, where just a few hours earlier that proud robin in the dewy dawn of a bright and lively spring morning snagged himself a fat worm, we watched great clumps of volcanic snow settle in the silence of midday midnight. My Aunt joked with me about putting on our snow gear and going out to make snow angels in the driveway. “The hell you will.” Mom said. I just wanted to touch it, to feel it between my fingers. It was new, and I was exceptionally curious.
We didn't see daylight again until that evening when the sun hung low enough in the west to shine under the blackest cloud imaginable. Mom grabbed a ruler and took me out to the driveway to gather depth data in several spots to compare with official measurements. Nearly half an inch of accumulation blanketed us that day. Then she took out a little glass vial and scooped up a small sample.
Years later I’ll ask her for it as a memento. I’ll promise to be careful with it. I’ll give my word. Then, one morning, I’ll tuck it safely into the pocket of my jeans before walking to school only to fumble it in a clumsy moment of pride and curiosity. I’ll only take it out to look at it. I won’t mean to drop it, but it’ll shatter on contact with the road all the same, sending a delicate grey puff adrift on the cool morning breeze. It may as well be my heart splattered there on the asphalt, as low as I’ll feel.
Dad never was called out to assist. He was home with us a day or two later. Everyone eager to hear him tell his experience. Eager to tell their own in return. I was just happy to hug my best buddy once again.
Read more about the 1980 eruption of Mount St. Helens on Wikipedia.
Thanks for reading. I've been meaning to write this out for ages. The 45th anniversary just feels right for some reason.
