Gone but not forgotten

Over the summer I had the chance to write some articles for the Philomath Express while the editor was on vacation. One of those stories led me to Philomath Middle School. I had not been to the school in over 20 years.

I was to meet the source for my assignment in the gym. As I entered the school from the side parking lot, the doors seemed smaller. The hallway seemed smaller. Everything seemed smaller. Or maybe I was just bigger.

I walked past where my old locker was and remembered the collage of clippings from Seventeen Magazine I had taped to the inside of the door. Most of which were probably of Home Improvement’s Jonathan Taylor Thomas. He was so dreamy to my 11-year-old self.

Painted in the hallway I saw a familiar drawing; a muscular Indian, hands in the air, a painted face. It looked to me like the art of Daniel Bain. I remembered when our class voted on it. We chose that drawing to be the one for the cover of our yearbook. A smile came to my face as I remembered him, and how he left us too soon.

When I made my way to the gym I realized how, like me, it too had grown up. It had new, fancy bleachers that replaced the old, clunky wooden ones. I recalled how loud those wooden bleachers were when they were pushed back into place against the wall. The new ones now retreat in near silence at the push of a button.

As I continued on the day’s assignment, I headed towards the music room. I spent a lot of time in that room with Mrs. Crocker as I learned to play the trumpet. I saw the back row in which I sat, often in second chair. I thought about my friend, Rachael, who always seemed to land in that coveted first chair seat.

As I continued around the hallways, the library prompted me to remember the day of the OJ Simpson verdict. On that day we gathered in the library, rows of seats set out where tables usually stood, projection screen pulled down. We watched with the rest of the nation as the “guilty” or “not guilty” decision was made. When we heard it, I remember seeing the faces of our teachers who stood among us. They looked shocked. I was shocked. Many of us were.

Down the hall from the library was my fifth-grade homeroom. I used to get “hall passes” to the bathroom, but, really, I wanted to walk by the neighboring classroom where a cute boy was. I would slow down as I passed the open door and pretend I didn’t mean to catch his eye. I chuckled as I recalled this because that same boy is now my boyfriend. This month marks our four-year anniversary.

When done with the day’s assignment, I left through the same doors in which I had come. I looked up again at Dan’s drawing, saying goodbye to an old friend. With thoughts of life and death and all the unknown in between, I remembered another Brave no longer with us. As I drove past the front of the school, where the buses line up at the end of the day, I saw the tree planted for Nicole Gee. It stands today as another memory of someone gone too soon.

After my visit to the middle school, my trip down memory lane continued. I was added to the Facebook group “Mr. Mortlock’s Battle with Cancer.” The group of 2,049 people began to share fond memories of the school’s seventh-grade science teacher. I imagine on the days that he could Mr. Mortlock read some of them.

I can’t help but think of what a wonderful gift the Mortlock family gave him—the gift of a forum where people could share the impact he made on their lives. I should only hope something so meaningful can happen to us all—to leave this world knowing we had changed it, if only in the small portion of it that we call home.

As I think about Dan’s drawing on the wall and Nicole’s tree in the lawn, I wonder if it’s time to add another tribute to the school’s grounds. Post after post in Mr. Mortlock’s group proved that his PIADIAMCBLASFAA lessons stuck with us all, even though many of us forgot how to spell it. To me, a mural of this phrase somewhere in the school seems to be the perfect reminder of another person gone but not forgotten in our community.

When day become night

Moment of totality, Aug. 21, 2017, Philomath, Ore.

No matter what the experts said, I had no idea what to expect the morning of Aug. 21. I took my seat at a friend’s house off Alsea Hwy at 9 a.m. We sat in the open air, surrounded by grassy fields in a yard filled with flower beds, ornamental bushes, and fruit trees. Perched on the hillside, we had a direct view of the sun. 

Nature was loud. Birds chirped, chickens clucked, cows mooed, dogs barked. Cars sped by. Life was as usual. And then it was not.

The moment the sun began to black out, as if Mother Nature had taken a bite out of a cookie, my imagination began to swirl. Questions I’d never pondered cluttered my mind: What would our world be like with no sun? Would we even be able to survive? Which plants or animals would disappear first? 

As the moon’s shadow blocked more of the sun, we felt the temperature drop. It was then I realized how even the smallest portions of the sun radiate such immense amounts of heat. 

Halfway to totality, shadows from the leaves of the many plants around us began to cast mini moons everywhere. We scattered like kids chasing fireflies, catching thumbnail moons in our hands, bewildered by the phenomena. Our skin turned the color of tangerines and gold, a sun-kissed glow I’d never seen before. 

Our ISO glasses allowed us to see what we normally could not: We saw the sun’s pulse, we saw its rays, we saw the motion of its fire. Its edges looked like melting wax, a burning rim spitting its heat downward. With my new eyes, I realized, each day as we go about our business, the sun shines and we miss the magic of its reign, the dance of its light. 

Just before totality, the only traffic left on the road were semi-trucks. They remained on schedule, it appeared, but I wondered if that was the driver’s choice. Humans put so much emphasis on time and duty. We put value on minutes and tasks, and yet, this event was something most will never see again. Was it not important enough to take a break, pause your duty, and see the value of this time?

As the last sliver of sun shone, the crickets sang the song of night. The birds returned to their nests. Grasshoppers jumped back to wherever they came from. Bees disappeared. Perhaps the creatures were confused, or perhaps they were paying attention to instincts humans often fail to recognize. 

Then, day became night. 

The sky turned a deep blue twilight, as if the depths of the ocean had suddenly been placed on top of us. For that minute and 15 seconds, stars sparkled in the day-night sky. Jupiter showed itself. The crickets ended their song. The breeze stopped. The world was at a stand-still. 

In the busiest times of the day—those when there is sunlight—we are accustomed to sound. Sirens, horns, voices, wildlife. In the moment of totality, silence had never been so silent. Not a car was on the road. Those truckers must have taken that break after all. 

I sat in my chair, jaw-dropped, transported to a world I’d never been to. I stared at a different sun, a different sky, hearing the different sound of nothingness. 

In that moment, I realized that everything is relative to what we know. And in that moment of totality I knew nothing about anything. Yet a feeling of serenity consumed me. I could not speak, and that was fine, I had no words to describe how I felt. I knew I didn’t want to miss the moment. I wanted to capture its essence. I wanted to experience a world different from our reality.

As the sun reappeared, those mini moon shadows returned, but they were reversed. The sun revealed itself from the opposite side of where Mother Nature had first taken her bite from the cookie. I didn’t expect reversed shadows, but then again, I had no expectations at all. 

For the second time that day, birds came out of their nests. Dogs barked. The temperature rose. Cars returned. The sun became whole. Life became normal again on a day that was anything but.

Experiencing the total eclipse was one of my life’s monumental moments. A time I felt so small that I wanted to howl at the moon like a wild animal. A time that was invaluable and worth stopping for. Because when this life is over, we only have our memories; moments like the morning of Aug. 21.