It was not possible to grow up in the sixties without having science thrust upon you at every turn. These were delicious years for science teachers. These were the tornado shelter years, the time of Duck & Cover nuclear drills. The moon landing on every television in every home. Suddenly there were vaccines for everything, the birth control pill was invented. And these were just the things we noticed, remarked upon.Behind the scenes the whole world was being changed.
But in the middle of it all, what I remember, for unusual reasons, was the eclipse.There were projects for building boxes with pinholes. There were discussions of angles, timing. There was chit chat about where we should be, what to do, and how to behave. Just like there is right now.
And then there was my mother’s simple, exhausted, I just-had-a-baby-admonition: For the entire day, just to be safe, don’t look at the sun. No matter what. Not once.
But it was summer, and we ran outside like untended dogs, all the neighborhood kids, which included mostly girls but a few boys, one a year older who lived next door. I was six and he was seven? Eight? We were that young. Somehow he and I were together, alone, on the hill in his backyard, pulling patches of grass up with our hands, throwing them. Braiding them. Trying to whistle with them. Making the long hot July day go by. The sun was directly overhead, which is why we were sitting, there, tempting fate. We talked about not looking. That we could go blind. What it would be like to go blind. The boxes we were supposed to use sat next to us on the lawn. Where was my brother? Where was his sister? Where was my friend who lived across the street? I don’t know.
"I can't look," I said.
He leaned over to kiss me, his lips garden-cool on mine, and for a brief moment, his head, with his blond crew cut and dirt streaks on his forehead, completely covered the threat of the sun. I know because I opened my eyes.
Spoiler alert: I am not blind.
