Eclipsin'

From a letter sent to a friend who grew up in Wyoming and now lives overseas.

So very Wyoming

We drove up through central Colorado, passing through Walden and North Park then onto Wyoming highway 230. We both laughed at how the speed-limit sign was the first thing you saw after crossing the border. 70! Go really really fast! No one cares! At least, that was our interpretation. Other than an occasional vehicle and a fire off in the distance somewhere near Riverside, we didn’t see a thing. We made it to Saratoga around 2:30 in the afternoon.

We set up our camp chairs in the motel courtyard, which faced the North Platte. It was so peaceful and serene. I do believe the North Platte is much prettier than the South Platte. It was the first time I’d seen that river. We drove around town (which didn’t take long), filled up on gas, and stopped at a place called Duke’s Bar & Grill for an early dinner. It was Sunday afternoon, and it looked like they roll up the sidewalks fairly early.

Well, after spending the night on what must be the most uncomfortable motel bed in all of Wyoming, we decided to get up stupid early and drive to Casper. Dave and I were tossing and turning quite a bit and around 3 am, Dave said he was thinking of taking a shower and hitting the road. We packed up, silently, and were off by 4 am to start the 2.5 hour drive to Casper. We wanted to make sure we made it all the way and were hoping to land a spot at the fairgrounds in Casper.

Venus and the red lights

North on highway 130, we veered east on highway 30 in the pitch dark of night. Venus shone above the horizon right ahead of us (Venus is my favorite planet, right after Earth, of course). Somewhere in the dark we began to see weird red lights everywhere. At first I thought it was an airport but we were nowhere near a town. Dave suggested power lines. Maybe an extraterrestrial landing strip, in place just for that day? A lack of coffee clouding our judgment? Turns out it was lights on top the rotors at a huge wind farm west of Medicine Bow.

Next we went north on 487, where at last we ran into the traffic we expected, although not much. A light but steady stream of cars apparently coming from Laramie met us and we all zoomed merrily up the highway as the sky began to lighten a smidge, here and there. We made it to the fairgrounds early. As soon as the gates opened, we picked a parking spot and set up our temporary encampment, then wandered around to check out the facilities and enjoy our fellow eclipse chasers.

Our peeps for the day

I loved being in a crowd of people. My ideal at first was to be alone somewhere on the prairie, but the shared experience with so many people, all excited for the same thing, was a key part of what I took from the eclipse.

One thing that surprised me was how the colors changed all around us. The shadows were stronger, the grass seemed a deeper green, but the rest of the environment was muted and diffused, sort of an eerie silvery-gray color. We both wore black t-shirts and they weren’t even hot to the touch. The temperature dropped and the ever-present birds, hopping around looking for morsels of food dropped on the ground, all disappeared to their lofts in the trees. The crowd of people, which had previously been playing guitars, singing songs, telling stories and laughing, all grew silent. Just then, a hot air balloon, flying low, began to float over the fairgrounds. So perfect.

See the lens flare?

Someone in our row of cars had a phone app with a timer and she was counting down the time out loud for the rest of us. I heard someone else scream, “It’s happening!” The sky grew darker, like dusk, and then poof, it was as if someone turned out a light. The street lights came on, and the otherwise silent crowd began to clap and cheer and holler out a collective, “Oh my God!” (including me).

Much like the first time I saw the Grand Canyon in person, I cried when it happened. I was awestruck, tears streaming down my face, and I experienced the sensation of being insignificant and interconnected, all at once. I kept saying to myself, it’s so beautiful, I can’t believe it, oh my God it’s wonderful. It really was stunning, like nothing I’ve ever seen before, almost otherworldly.

It was over much too quickly, everyone agreed. Some people left right away, ready to the hit the road. We stayed for a while longer but not until the end. One more trip to the restrooms for good measure and we headed out, hoping not too many people would be on the same road home, which I learned is called “the back way” to/from Casper. No such luck!

Hundreds of cars ahead of us
as we passed a wind farm

Dave said he never imagined the worst traffic jam he would ever experience would be in Wyoming, of all places. We chugged along at speeds from 15 to 50, but I would say we averaged around 20 mph most of the time. It was a long slog but I enjoyed having a daylight view of the same area we drove through in the dark that morning. Stark. Empty. So very Wyoming.

It took us nine hours from the time we left Casper until we made it home. Apparently we fared better than others, as I heard stories of people taking upwards of 12-14 hours to get home, presumably on I-25. And here’s a fun footnote about the folks who watched at Glendo: apparently it took 3-4 hours to get from the Glendo State Park campgrounds along the frontage road and onto I-25. Yes. Just to get from the reservoir to the highway. And you can see the reservoir from the highway. Holy cow.

I hope you can see this video by NPR:

One Nation Under The Sun

It’s a collection of experiences across the country. I watched it this morning and cried, again, remembering an experience I will never forget.

Keep Calm and Stare at the Sun

What a Hoot

For at least the past week, I have heard one or more Great Horned Owls calling in the early morning hours. The sounds wake me up around 2:30 or 3:00 AM. Last night, there was a new sound, one which was more than a little creepy. Listen to the sound on the third button at this link:

Great Horned Owl Sounds

That shrieking sound was disturbing. I opened the window to listen but could not be sure. It did sound like a bird. Naturally I thought it might be an injured animal or some prey they had not yet killed. Perhaps an owl fledgling, calling to its parents. There were are least three separate calls, all very close. I've stepped outside in the past in hopes of seeing the shadow of an owl in one of the trees. Unfortunately, they are masters of disguise and good at hiding in the dark shadows.

The owls always make me think of this song, a personal favorite:

There's been a hoot owl howling by my window now, for six nights in a row.

Thank you, owls.

The Sister

Me, Ted, Dave (March 15, 2013)

Brother Ted is two years older than me. Except for the occasional teasing and his insistence that I was adopted after they found me on the doorstep, he's been a great brother.

And boy is he ever smart.

Ted was every parent's dream. Thoughtful, persistent, talented, artistic, studious. He received nothing but straight A's throughout school, with maybe a hard-to-believe A- or B+ to mess with his perfect record.

We never had classes together. Because of the way our school system was set up, after a certain set of grades were completed, you advanced to another school in a separate building. We were at the same school while I was in 1st and 2nd grade, but rarely saw each other. When I advanced to 3rd grade, he moved to 5th grade in a separate school. When I advanced to 5th grade, he moved to 7th grade in yet another school. And on it went.

Ted was famous, though. Oh yes. All the teachers loved him. I was painfully shy and terrified of tests, especially timed tests. Although I was a fairly good student, I never seemed to pass muster when it came to being Ted Thompson's Sister.

Yes. That was my name throughout the years. Every class I was in, the teacher would ask, are you related to Ted Thompson? I would nod my head, yes, thinking... here we go again. As Ted Thompson's Sister, I was expected to be good at science and math and homework and studying and speaking up in class and even to excel at enthusiastically erasing the chalkboards. But, I was not.

By the time I got to 7th grade, junior high (middle school as it's called now), I had grown weary of the comparisons. It was the late sixties and I wanted to be a flower child. I deliberately screwed up in math class. I ditched choir (yes, choir). I began to get into trouble regularly and mom was having none of it.

Then, something miraculous happened. As a high school freshman, back in the same school with brother Ted for the first time since 2nd grade, I signed up for beginning typing. We had to learn on manual typewriters, you know the kind: with a platen you had to slam vigorously from left to right using a handle poised on the left. Only in subsequent classes were you allowed to use an electric typewriter.

Ted was a junior now, well established in high school and famous in his own right as an artist and athletic trainer and overall smart-guy extraordinaire. The miraculous circumstance was that Ted also signed up for beginning typing that year. There we were. Side by side. In the same class. Learning the same thing. And let me tell you what, I kicked his ass up one side and down the other at typing. While Ted fumble-fingered his way through one semester of typing, I was a natural. Finally, finally (thank you, God) I found something I could do that Ted could not. I was on my way!

A career choice had been selected. By this time, I knew I'd never be a veterinarian, what with my sketchy grasp on science and our family's complete lack of funding for any type of higher education. But business classes, oh yes! I excelled at everything in this arena, and threw in some Spanish and literature and writing and social studies for good measure. I finally realized I didn't have to be as good as Ted. I only had to be as good as me...

And it worked!

Years later, a reunion was scheduled for all students attending our high school in the seventies. There I was, milling about the crowd, with a nametag proclaiming "Debbie Thompson, Class of 1975." Still, some people looked from my face to the nametag with a puzzled look, until I would announce, "I'm Ted Thompson's Sister." Oh, oh, yes! Now I know who you are.

It's become a badge of honor.

Polite Conversations

Today I walked the dogs at the open space near our house. It has been so dry and windy; wildfires have been springing up here and there across the state. The wind calmed down a bit and we strolled down winding paths here and there. Much sniffing was accomplished.

Back at the main trail, an older fellow on a bicycle pedaled slowly towards me. He wanted to know about the dogs: whether they were male or female, their ages, breeds. Tonka pushed forward to get a scratch; Daisy held back.

He said he had just returned from a trip to the grocery store on his bike. Up the big hill. He was tired. It's been cold. He needs to do this more often. He's 72, going on 73. His birthday is in May. Told me that, twice. I said I just turned sixty. He said sixty is pretty good; seventy is a lot harder. I told him sixty was good, so far.

Then..........

Him: Are you a Christian?
Me: [silence...thinking, where did this come from?] Not really.
Him: You must have been a Christian at some point. [why, because I'm a blonde?]
Me: When I was a kid, yes.
Him: What kind?
Me: [what kind? really?] Episcopal
Him: Well, Jesus loves you [there seemed to be an implied, "anyway" here].
Me: I'm sure he does.
Him: You should read his word.
Me: [silence]
Him: I pray every day and you should too.
Me: [silence]
Him: We need to pray for our country. Things are so bad. The world is dangerous. Our leaders don't even try to work together for our country.
Me: No, they don't. And it's going to get worse with that new guy in charge.

Our polite conversation ended abruptly at this point.

Him: [takes to the pedals] Goodbye.
Me: You have a good day.
Him: [silence]

Our lovely walk resumed. I did not look back.

Here We Go

Good morning. Today is my 60th birthday, which I've been anticipating for a while. Since a number of family members died in their fifties, I figured if I could make it to sixty, I'd be set for a while. Fingers crossed.

So here's a question: Is sixty still considered middle-aged, or am I now a senior? Not quite ready for the senior title just yet.

Brother Ted tells me that I'm now "advanced" middle-aged. He is 62 and considers himself a senior.

Oh, and March came in like a lamb, as it usually does. Here's a post I wrote in 2011:

In Like A Lion

Year of the Rooster

Right now I'm staring at the screen, as I have for the past four years or so, with nothing to say. Nothing to tell the world, nothing to tell myself, even. My head is a jumble of thoughts careening wildly from my current state of health to the state of affairs in our country and indeed in our world. I feel lost and confused and lonely.

My birth year, 1957, was the Year of the Rooster, and again this year, 2017, is the Year of the Rooster. In one more month, I will turn sixty years old. From what I've heard, this is an auspicious time in Asian custom; age sixty marks the completion of five life cycles, twelve years each. So this year, I will attempt to add notes to this new and private journal in hopes that some of the words swimming around in my head can be released to "paper" as it were.

For today, I have no definite plans other than the usual: laundry, shower, run errands, walk the dogs, attempt to stay away from the internet which is a cause of much stress in my life, and to eat better. I may or may not be successful at any of these tasks.

We shall see.