I was not yet in the double digits when I experienced my first full solar eclipse. It was a Saturday in March 1970. I was at my girlfriend’s house in central Pennsylvania, waiting and watching with her and her mother, Gloria. Gloria was the worrying kind, anxious about everything — toilet seat germs, lecherous old men and of course, on that day, that we might be blinded by the sun. As I recall, we were equipped with some sort of homemade pinhole viewing device, but even with that, Gloria urged us to stay inside. Less a cause for celebration, it felt more like the potential ending of the world. I wasn’t so sure I liked this idea of night when it was supposed to be day.
The email landed on my desk in the midst of dozens of other emails destined for the trash can. But this one grabbed my attention with the subject: “Oregonians Invited To Write Letters to Strangers in April.”
I’ve been noticing a lot of Idaho, Washington and California license plates these days, the coastal cue that it is once again Spring Break.
I was barely more than a toddler when he recruited me to dig for earth worms and even though I was scared of the wiggling slimy things, if my big brother wanted me – ME – to help dig for worms so he
1. I am a little more than 12 weeks into recovery from my rotator cuff surgery when my mom goes in for her own shoulder repair. My recovery is going well. My cousin Bill has had the same surgery and
Lea’s kiss that morning came as a complete — albeit not unwelcome — surprise. I was at the Oregon Coast Aquarium to watch her paint, which she did in fact do quite well. Every time Lea completed a