Eclipse on Church Street
Monday, August 21: Solar Eclipse. I knew it was coming; it consumed the news for two weeks.
But when I woke that morning to a honking horn, I knew I was in for a day like no other. I looked out the window to find a traffic jam on Church Street.
Five cars at a total standstill. Unbelievable.
Upon investigation, I discovered construction east of us had whittled the road to one lane. Armed with a sign and two-way radio, a worker held cars in front of our house, but impatient drivers exist even in a small Ohio village.
Hands flapped behind several steering wheels. They must have believed this was their last chance ever to pass through Milan.
The flurry extended to our side porch as well. A lone tiger swallowtail sprinted from one blossom to another on our butterfly bush for more than 30 minutes. His frantic zipping for the last drop suggested there would be no more syrup. Ever.
Then the fire department siren blasted a call for its volunteers. The engine, filled with suited-up fire fighters, roared past our house toward the flames, a highly unusual run for a Monday afternoon.
And across America, people flocked here, there, and everywhere, desperate and determined, to experience a total eclipse. Nothing less than that would be acceptable. Ever.
We stayed put for our partial eclipse, which turned out to be powerful enough for me.
Beth joined us along the porch with her certified glasses for safe viewing. For the longest time, nothing much happened. Then she handed me the glasses and told me to look. And there it was–an orange disk being gobbled up by blackness. In the middle of a summer day, when I take that big round sun for granted, it changed.
The moon does that all the time. Not the sun.
Everything turned quiet. Deeply quiet.
The traffic out front. The massive oak tree with a million leaves.
Birds and butterflies vanished.
Even the surrounding light switched from wild brightness into something clear but uncertain for a hot day in August.
Occasionally I stood to peer at the eclipse in our birdbath, filled to the brim for the event. At first the reflection mirrored the skyward orange and black display, but then the reflection turned pure white and black in the still water.
My mind clutched.
I’m sure a scientific term exists for this, a multi-syllabic word ending in ion that I once memorized for a test. But I’ll settle for magic, two syllables that are always good enough for me. What else could have transformed the orange sun into the white moon floating in our birdbath?
Our dog Maria slept through the event in the garden.
Yet it wasn’t lost on me that she stood at the right moment for a drink, lapping up that eclipse magic.
I have every reason to believe, for one rare afternoon, that white reflection sugared the water with solar sweetness. My mother used to cook a candy that changed in the overnight darkness from something brittle into soft, creamy goodness by morning light. No doubt a long word exists for this chemical process, too.
No matter. I wouldn’t have missed that candy magic for anything. Or Maria’s decision to drink the moon.
There was nothing partial about either. Not then. Not ever.
