As requested, here's my story of the eruption of Mt.
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It’s a cool cloudy morning in western Idaho, just a few miles from the border with Washington state. I’m still the apple of my father’s eye. The favorite kid, who unlike my older sister loves all the hobbies my dad loves, fishing, hunting, working on the car, and unlike my younger brother, I can sit still long enough to do them.
My dad is still a bigger than life hero to me; the wisest, strongest, most skilled, and honorable person in the world. It would take three decades, a Black man becoming president, and me marrying a non-white man who my dad had hoped was just phase to fully shatter that illusion.
But this is 1980, I’m seven.
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My dad is still a bigger than life hero to me; the wisest, strongest, most skilled, and honorable person in the world. It would take three decades, a Black man becoming president, and me marrying a non-white man who my dad had hoped was just phase to fully shatter that illusion.
But this is 1980, I’m seven.
We’d only moved to this out of the way corner of the Northwest from Evanston Illinois a few years earlier. Dad relished every opportunity to get back to the outdoor activities he’d loved as a kid before the arrival of my sister abruptly pushed him into adulthood. He was so proud when I’d taken to fishing like a pro, pulling in trout after trout from the forest-service-stocked reservoir just 40 minutes from home. And I was so proud to be his little fisher-woman.
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We’d only moved to this out of the way corner of the Northwest from Evanston Illinois a few years earlier. Dad relished every opportunity to get back to the outdoor activities he’d loved as a kid before the arrival of my sister abruptly pushed him into adulthood. He was so proud when I’d taken to fishing like a pro, pulling in trout after trout from the forest-service-stocked reservoir just 40 minutes from home. And I was so proud to be his little fisher-woman.
We hadn’t been out at my favorite shore of the little reservoir for more than a few hours, having left home just after 8:00am mass. We’d met up with some of Dad’s fellow Econ Professor colleagues and their wives, none of them the expert fisher people that my dad and I were.
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We hadn’t been out at my favorite shore of the little reservoir for more than a few hours, having left home just after 8:00am mass. We’d met up with some of Dad’s fellow Econ Professor colleagues and their wives, none of them the expert fisher people that my dad and I were.
It was just a normal day fishing. Me, my dad, my brother, and Dad's kid-less colleagues.
At some point, one of the wives noticed a dark black cloud peeking between the hills to the west. As it grew, she became increasingly convinced it was an eruption from Mt. St. Helens, whose rumblings had been in the nightly news. This was of course clearly ridiculous Dad says, we are at least 400 miles away.
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It was just a normal day fishing. Me, my dad, my brother, and Dad's kid-less colleagues.
At some point, one of the wives noticed a dark black cloud peeking between the hills to the west. As it grew, she became increasingly convinced it was an eruption from Mt. St. Helens, whose rumblings had been in the nightly news. This was of course clearly ridiculous Dad says, we are at least 400 miles away.
Convinced that it was the volcano erupting, she drags her embarrassed husband home while the cloud is just an ominous bulge on the western horizon. We continue fishing, and the cloud continues to grow, inky black, unlike any cloud I’ve seen on my short time on the planet.
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Convinced that it was the volcano erupting, she drags her embarrassed husband home while the cloud is just an ominous bulge on the western horizon. We continue fishing, and the cloud continues to grow, inky black, unlike any cloud I’ve seen on my short time on the planet.
The adults start talking with one another in the hushed tones one uses when trying not alarm children. Finally, a decision is made, we’re heading home.
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The adults start talking with one another in the hushed tones one uses when trying not alarm children. Finally, a decision is made, we’re heading home.
As we hurriedly pack up our things and trundle back to the car, Dad orders us around with an angry shortness, that I now know is his panicked mode. The cloud looms large, occupying at least ¼ of the western sky, as we speed down the bumpy dirt roads as fast as the old VW bus can take us. When we finally hit the paved roads and can jump to 55 the cloud spans half the sky a menacing black growing by the minute, and we're driving straight towards it.
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As we hurriedly pack up our things and trundle back to the car, Dad orders us around with an angry shortness, that I now know is his panicked mode. The cloud looms large, occupying at least ¼ of the western sky, as we speed down the bumpy dirt roads as fast as the old VW bus can take us. When we finally hit the paved roads and can jump to 55 the cloud spans half the sky a menacing black growing by the minute, and we're driving straight towards it.
We speed past the tiny city of Troy its little cluster of main street stores lining the two-lane highway with no stoplights to slow our race. Into Moscow, where each red stoplight makes dad chew his lips watching the cloud creeping slowly overhead. We make it just to the west side of town when the ash starts falling, and the cloud begins to block out the noon-time sun. Dad has me roll up the window and shut the vent on my side of the car.
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We speed past the tiny city of Troy its little cluster of main street stores lining the two-lane highway with no stoplights to slow our race. Into Moscow, where each red stoplight makes dad chew his lips watching the cloud creeping slowly overhead. We make it just to the west side of town when the ash starts falling, and the cloud begins to block out the noon-time sun. Dad has me roll up the window and shut the vent on my side of the car.
The cloud continues its march across the sky, blocking out the sun and dropping us into a pitch darkness deeper than the darkest night. The ash is falling heavily now, unable to see more than a few feet in front of the car, Dad slows to an achingly slow pace. We're still miles from home an hour at the pace we're going.
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The cloud continues its march across the sky, blocking out the sun and dropping us into a pitch darkness deeper than the darkest night. The ash is falling heavily now, unable to see more than a few feet in front of the car, Dad slows to an achingly slow pace. We're still miles from home an hour at the pace we're going.
A fine dusting of ash starts to appear on the dashboard and dad tells us to pull our shirts up over our noses. Brian, my little brother, asks if we are going to die. Dad assures us we’ll be fine, we’ll be home soon.
He is lying, he’s seen what Mt. Vesuvius did to the people of Pompei and he can see us clutching each other in fear as the ash seals us for eternity. It'll be easier on us if we make it home first.
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A fine dusting of ash starts to appear on the dashboard and dad tells us to pull our shirts up over our noses. Brian, my little brother, asks if we are going to die. Dad assures us we’ll be fine, we’ll be home soon.
He is lying, he’s seen what Mt. Vesuvius did to the people of Pompei and he can see us clutching each other in fear as the ash seals us for eternity. It'll be easier on us if we make it home first.
We inch along the highway, hoping that we see any car stopped ahead of us, that we stay on the highway. Slowly, dim street lights emerge from the dark as we near the turn off for the back way home, fewer stop lights, fewer chances of rear ending someone. In darkness, we surely pass the strange three wheeled merry-go-round machine that tests radial tires for wear, and the barn that holds the cows with the windows on their sides so the veterinary students can learn anatomy, but we don’t see them.
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We inch along the highway, hoping that we see any car stopped ahead of us, that we stay on the highway. Slowly, dim street lights emerge from the dark as we near the turn off for the back way home, fewer stop lights, fewer chances of rear ending someone. In darkness, we surely pass the strange three wheeled merry-go-round machine that tests radial tires for wear, and the barn that holds the cows with the windows on their sides so the veterinary students can learn anatomy, but we don’t see them.
Turn right and we’re going past greenhouses, where in 10 years I’ll work my first job. They glow dimly through the ash. Right again past the coliseum, where we’d watch basketball games and later my sister and I would go for our graduations.
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Turn right and we’re going past greenhouses, where in 10 years I’ll work my first job. They glow dimly through the ash. Right again past the coliseum, where we’d watch basketball games and later my sister and I would go for our graduations.
Left onto our street past the ‘field’ a vacant lot owned by some neighbors who kept it as a community park where on 4th of July after gorging on potluck food, the big kids would light their illegal fireworks, purchased from the Indian reservations up north of town, and entertain us all.
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Left onto our street past the ‘field’ a vacant lot owned by some neighbors who kept it as a community park where on 4th of July after gorging on potluck food, the big kids would light their illegal fireworks, purchased from the Indian reservations up north of town, and entertain us all.
Home. Mom fusses over us, Dad heads out to pick up my sister who is trapped at someone’s house where she was preparing to go on her first girl scout camping trip. I take a bath, and get in my PJs, which everyone laughs at because it’s only 1pm.
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Home. Mom fusses over us, Dad heads out to pick up my sister who is trapped at someone’s house where she was preparing to go on her first girl scout camping trip. I take a bath, and get in my PJs, which everyone laughs at because it’s only 1pm.
The next day dawns to a different world. Everything is covered in a fine layer of ash. Radio and TV news casters broadcast instructions to deal with the ash-wash it off, wait that turns it into a cement that won’t come off, brush it off, it just billows back. The school year is cancelled, my sister will never go on her camping trip. For reasons that still remain mysterious, she is not allowed to join scouts the following year and I am never allowed to join.
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The next day dawns to a different world. Everything is covered in a fine layer of ash. Radio and TV news casters broadcast instructions to deal with the ash-wash it off, wait that turns it into a cement that won’t come off, brush it off, it just billows back. The school year is cancelled, my sister will never go on her camping trip. For reasons that still remain mysterious, she is not allowed to join scouts the following year and I am never allowed to join.
We wear stuffy masks outside for weeks. They stink like rubber and fresh paint. The gritty ash and tight bands leave red welts on my nose and cheeks. The whiteish ash gets everywhere. For years, people will find piles of it under decks or behind woodpiles.
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We wear stuffy masks outside for weeks. They stink like rubber and fresh paint. The gritty ash and tight bands leave red welts on my nose and cheeks. The whiteish ash gets everywhere. For years, people will find piles of it under decks or behind woodpiles.
My elementary school closes for good, something that had been planned for years, but with the cancelled school year, the school remains just like we left it. Years later my friends and I will break into the school and sort through the clay dinosaurs we’d made in art class and try to remember which one was ours.
The school will eventually be torn down to make low cost apartments for college students.
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My elementary school closes for good, something that had been planned for years, but with the cancelled school year, the school remains just like we left it. Years later my friends and I will break into the school and sort through the clay dinosaurs we’d made in art class and try to remember which one was ours.
The school will eventually be torn down to make low cost apartments for college students.
With the school closed, Dad will never coach soccer again, our new school is too far for him to pop over for practices. Although for decades when we talk about someone from our hometown, he will swear he coached that kid. In two years, dad will go on sabbatical in Southern California where he will meet my first step mom. A woman who deserved far more kindness and respect than my dad or the rest of our family gave her.
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With the school closed, Dad will never coach soccer again, our new school is too far for him to pop over for practices. Although for decades when we talk about someone from our hometown, he will swear he coached that kid. In two years, dad will go on sabbatical in Southern California where he will meet my first step mom. A woman who deserved far more kindness and respect than my dad or the rest of our family gave her.
I would continue to fish with Dad for several years, learning to fly fish, using a beloved bamboo fishing rod Dad made for me. Those are some of the best memories I have, clomping around with Dad in creeks in Idaho, coming back with tiny trout that I pretended to enjoy eating. We only stopped when he moved to Massachusetts my freshman year, setting off three years of custody battles.
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I would continue to fish with Dad for several years, learning to fly fish, using a beloved bamboo fishing rod Dad made for me. Those are some of the best memories I have, clomping around with Dad in creeks in Idaho, coming back with tiny trout that I pretended to enjoy eating. We only stopped when he moved to Massachusetts my freshman year, setting off three years of custody battles.
So that, my friends, is the story of the eruption Mt. St. Helens as seen in eastern Washington state where the ash fall was among the highest from the perspective of a seven year old who is now fifty-three.
