Angie again. The perfect shot.

The Eclipse: Like, Wow.

There are two events that consistently disappointed me when I was in my 20s: Halloween and New Year’s Eve.

After a massive buildup between friends and community, the evening would invariably fizzle because Halloween is primarily for kids, and New Year’s Eve is primarily for drinking alone and asking your cats if they’ll eat you after you die.

The Great American Eclipse was hyped beyond anything I’ve seen in this area, and it didn’t just deliver, itĀ smashed my expectations in every way possible. Think about that– an event that lasted (the good part, anyway) less than three minutes has now become one of the most impactful memories of my life. We had 2:36 of totality here in Portland, TN, and it was–

— unearthly? That comes close.

‘muriclipse!

The air began to still after the first nibble from the moonshadow, descending from the upper right corner of the sun’s scorching globe. It was brutally hot here, but in minutes, the day began to grow softer. The light was undefined, and more so with each passing moment. Outside, trees looked dimmed, their shadows crisp and odd. The first insects began to trill, their confusion a verbal accent to the lowered light. Frogs croaked. Birds that usually sang went quiet, and night birds perked up, early to the party.

Shadows and light took on the crescents of the eclipse. Things began to slow down. Looking up through eclipse glasses, the sun was still a defiantly blinding wedge, but shrinking with each moment we stood out in the swelter of August. There wasn’t a puff of wind; even the breeze was stopping to watch the spectacle.

Crescents through the tree, courtesy of Tim McCoy.

And then the most incredible thing happened. Every nerve in my body began to hum as I watched the sun– one second a blazing, punishing wedge of heat– be consumed by the moonshadow, eroding like a fading smile. My family was with me, all eyes upward and transfixed with the kind of wonder that only the heavens and babies can produce. The air grew still and time stopped. The diamond ring formed, a lurid gem of white-hot light that flew outward from the darkened sun, a final cheer before the curious dusk went to black.

Wife’s bestie captured this; our town was in the galactic sweet spot.

Going, going–

Angie again. The perfect shot.

— gone. We whooped. In the distance, kids shouting, and their parents, too. Unalloyed joy at this confluence of shadow and light. The corona glowing in space, laid bare for us to see if only for a moment.

And what a moment. It was perfect, archaic, primal, elegant– in that brief, dim triumph all of the myths were believable and all the legends true. I stared up in disbelief and the visceralĀ knowing of what hung there in the blackness. A memory from somewhen else tickled at my consciousness like curious minnows on the legs of a wading child. Every part of my sight was locked on that gloriously lurid otherness that replaced what I knew to be the fountain of life on this planet. The shadow sat smugly over the sun, whose rays speared into the darkness of space on a scale that made me feel lucky and small whether I wished to or not.

Every second of totality was perfect, except for the ticking clock that brought the diamond blazing to life on the opposite side. The ring grew, shadows faded. The otherness drained away even as my smile remained. We hugged, unsure what to do with our wiggling hands, at a loss for purpose in the memory of something so grand, but so brief.

The heat returned, followed by a storm of chatter and some internal reflection. It’s just science, right?

All of the legends were true, and they will be as long as I remember that moment of half-night, and how it made me feel.

Terry

 

 

 

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The Tattered Glory of August

August is one of my favorite times. It’s hot, but there might be the odd fresh morning that lets you know autumn is around the bend.

My running route is packed with summer. Over the past two weeks, all of these signs have begun to fray, and beautifully so. There are late blackberries, some scorched and some still plump.

Some are still sour. We’ve got a good long season here.

Among the thorns, I heard a rustle. She was hung up by her foot. When I let her go, she flew to the little creek immediately– thirsty but okay.

Along the way, the true glory of August is on display. It’s easy to run and be cheerful despite the heat. (Full disclosure: I LOVE running in the heat. Unsure why, but it feels better, like hot yoga provided by Mother Nature)

Everywhere I looked, flowers. Some people call them weeds, but that’s not true.

Things are past their peak, but still radiant. The colors are stunning, and there’s a desperate quality to the lower leaves on all the plants. They’re sun-scorched but defiant, pushing up blooms that are visible at a distance. Summer beauty is persistent.

The goldenrod and purple glory is just starting. Up next: September, when we start thinking cozy thoughts.

Off to run. Hope your neighborhood is filled with color, too.

Cheers,

Terry

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When Squirrels Attack

Squirrels are adorable terrorists. They’re small, agile, cute, destructive, and recently, they attempted to take me out.

Muerte. Dead. Doomed. Ixnayed. Rubbed out. Removed with extreme prejudice.

Call it what you will, this was a clear attempt on my life.

Some background: Our home is more than a century old. The backyard is filled with treasures, from modern toys, vintage toys, china, bottles, inkwells, and other various items accumulated over time.

Until now, they’ve been relatively tame, and only unearthed by our dogs. Or me. Or moles. You get the picture.

It all changed when I heard a thunk as I was near the Super Tree House Compound I built for our son. A squirrel- it could be no other beast– dropped something from the top of our maple tree.

It was no accident. For your consideration, I offer the following evidence:

That. . . is an antler knife with a screwdriver, or what I like to call, “Evidence of a crime.”

I’m holding the knife until the end of my natural existence, in the event that the squirrels decide to take another crack at me. You must understand, I have a history with squirrels. Our relationship began quite well– we had tame squirrels that ate out of our hands. They would sit on my shoulder, and let me pet their little ears. All was well until the Pumpkin Incident of 2003.

I had a sixty pound pumpkin of such glorious orange that it was sure to be a showstopper for Halloween. When I woke up one morning before carving, I saw something odd. The back end of a squirrel protruded from the interior of my once heroic pumpkin, now a partial husk having been disemboweled by a family of squirrels.

Actually, they’re a crime family. Let’s call it like it is.

I *may* have yelled at the offending beastie, and we all know how the Squirrel Network never forgets– and never forgives.

I urge you to look up. They’re watching you, and they’re armed.