My Favorite Things — The Total Solar Eclipse

As the moon swallowed the last sliver of sun, the sky darkened to a dusky blue. Birds grew silent and sleepy. Cicadas and frogs awoke with startled buzzes. With a sudden gust of wind, the blistering 90-degree day chilled to a comfortable 80 degrees or less.

And in the midst of it all, we stared upward into the dancing corona of the sun and joined the cheer that rose from the gathered crowd.

Eclipse totality on August 21, 2017, had begun.

All my life, I’ve watched the sky. My aunt took me camping and taught me the names and locations of constellations. My parents plopped hide-a-bed mattresses and sleeping bags in our backyard to watch the Milky Way swirl. 

And one summer, my friends and I drove high into the Cascade Mountains to watch the Perseids scatter huge, multi-colored meteors. I gave up counting an hour in at 500 but they were still falling as dawn broke.

Early in my adulthood I bought a cheap telescope. I soon found Mars, Jupiter and its pinpoint moons, and Saturn. I watched Venus transit the sun and stared in awe at the bright smudge of Orion’s Nebula. I marveled at the deep colors of two lunar eclipses.

But solar eclipses eluded me. I read the news, fantasized about the experience, and wished and waited for some day when I might see one for myself — without having to travel around the world for it.

I think I might have screamed when I learned of the coming of that August eclipse. By then I lived in northern Illinois and one of the best viewing spots for totality — the total eclipse of the sun by the moon — would take place in the southern tip of the state. My brain tingled with the knowledge that I only had to travel a few hours. I could do that!

But some people are able to travel much farther than I can and many made their plans even earlier than I did. Almost a year before the eclipse, every affordable place within the totality line had already been snapped up.

My husband and I had to settle for a campsite half an hour further north. This meant we’d have to scout for another place to watch from, but it would do. We’d be close enough.

And so, a little past sunrise on that already hot morning of August 21st — our 13th wedding anniversary, no less — we pulled into the parking lot at our selected site: a nondescript park with basic amenities and a wide open field. We carried drinking water, chairs, food, and of course, my telescope. And despite our early arrival, we weren’t the first ones there.

For the next several hours, we shared a shaded park pavilion, growing crowd excitement, and fascinating views through my telescope with dozens of strangers. I found that pointing my phone’s camera through the scope’s filtered eyepiece yielded surprisingly decent pictures. Others tried this too, as delighted to get those magnified photos as I was to share the view.

Minute by minute more of that bright orb vanished behind the moon’s black shadow. But the day grew hotter and more humid and clouds began to form in the sky. They grew thicker as the precious moments of totality neared.

Murmurs of unease whispered about. All our careful planning and the weather stood ready to ruin everything in that last, pivotal instant. I couldn’t wish the clouds gone or blow hard enough to change atmospheric patterns. I could only watch, helpless, as that puffy white blockade piled along the horizons and began to drift occasionally across the crescent sun’s face.

I heard later that in nearby towns, the clouds did hide totality. But in the final moments, they cleared for us. And the sky darkened…

Totality lasted less than 3 minutes — such a tiny fraction of time compared to the years I’d spent waiting, hoping, planning, and preparing. It overwhelmed the mind yet further rooted a desire for more at the same time. So it was only natural that, as the diamond glint of sun reappeared along the moon’s edge, I knew where I would be again in a mere seven years.

What were the chances? In that short span of time, two lines of totality would center their massive ‘X’ across the same portion of my country. Two eclipses would be within my ready grasp. I eagerly began my preparations anew.

On April 8, 2024, a second eclipse will cross the tip of southern Illinois. The line of totality will hit land in Mazatlan, Mexico and track upward. Dallas, Texas; Little Rock, Arkansas; Indianapolis, Indiana; Cleveland, Ohio; and Buffalo, New York all get to admire the three-to-four-minute phenomenon from their backyards and balconies. I’ll have to drive again — but I don’t mind.

I have a better telescope now, one that cuts through light cloud-cover, and a real camera to attach to it. I have new glasses and better filters, a hotel room inside totality’s shadow that I reserved almost a year ago, and this time my brother and his family will hop on a plane to come join us, too.

It’ll be colder — April isn’t August, after all — and I expect that may force a few changes. But I’ll be there, as ready as I can, come what may.

Oh Clouds, behave yourselves. Oh Weather, be kind. No solar eclipse is like another and the next won’t cross near me again until 2044. I’d rather not wait that long for a second taste.

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