(Ed. note: In the buildup to the April 8, 2024 total solar eclipse, Mike Rusinko remembered back to another one over five decades ago.)
March 7, 1970 was a crisp, end-of-winter day in the Endless Mountains of Northern Pennsylvania, probably. My family lived in the heart of those mountains back then, in Troy. Troy had a toy store, a donut shop, and miles of woods to explore. I’m sure there were other wonderful things about Troy, but I was 9. Troy had all I needed to be 9.
In 1970, I was a third-grader at W.R. Croman Elementary School. A swarm of yellow buses filled the parking lot every morning and afternoon but not for me. I was a walker and hiked two miles to and from school every day like a Sherpa. Back then we didn’t count steps. Cardio had not yet been invented.
March 7 was a Saturday. It would be the day of the Great Eclipse of 1970, visible in totality along most of the Eastern seaboard and, in part, over most of the Lower 48.
I don’t remember it, really. I do, however, remember the day before, Friday, March 6, 1970.
Our teacher was Mrs. Tissue-Sleeve. This was not her real name, but the Kleenex under the metal stretch band of her Lady Speidel watch was very real. She was an older woman, but at 9 everyone is old-ish. She had a big heart, good intentions, and allergies. That day, as I recall now, had just gotten away from her.
We began with the Pledge. Then as we settled in, Mrs. Tissue-Sleeve told the class it would be a special morning. She asked if anyone knew what tomorrow was.
“Saturday!” we all called out, proud of ourselves.
“Well, yes, but I meant, do you know what special event is happening tomorrow?” she asked.
There was momentary silence. It didn’t last.
“My Dad says it’s the ‘Clipse,” said Peter Abby, the little know-it-all in the front row ... also not his real name.
“That’s right, Peter. Tomorrow is the big Solar Eclipse! The moon passes between the Sun and the Earth, and it will get dark in the middle of the day!”
“Do we have to go to bed when it gets dark?” someone asked.
“Is that a bad thing? It sounds bad,” said someone else. That someone was me, I’m pretty sure.
“I’m scared, Mrs. Tissue-Sleeve,” someone said as their voice broke. And then the crying broke out. It wasn’t widespread, but even isolated sobbing can water down a good science lesson. Mrs. Tissue-Sleeve rallied the troops.
“There’s nothing at all to be afraid of! In fact, we’re going to have a special craft morning to make our own eclipse viewers!”
She then held up what looked to a room of 9-year-olds like a small pizza box.
“Are we making pizza?” somebody asked, obviously hungry. “I love pizza!”
Everyone cheered. We all loved pizza.
“No, it’s so you can watch the sun’s light slowly get blocked by the moon.”
“Can’t we just look at the sun?” somebody wondered out loud.
“That’s not safe for our eyes,” said Mrs. Tissue-Sleeve, trying hard to steer away from danger.
“Then can’t we just stay inside?” This was also probably me.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” said about half the class.
A good chunk of the rest of the morning was taken up with scissors and light cardboard and circle-drawing and hole-poking as our pizza boxes without pizza began to take shape. The basic idea was to stand facing the sun and hold the lid open. The sun comes through a tiny hole poked in the top piece and shines down on the bottom piece. As the eclipse progresses, you follow the little dot of light on the bottom as it eventually goes dark.
It became time to head outside and try out the viewers. We lined up by height, as per Pennsylvania state elementary school law. I was the tallest, and that meant I was always last. And it meant that little Peter Abby was in front. He was smart and got the most Valentines cards. And he was always first in every line.
I hated him.
Peter was first on the playground, trying out the pizza box. A born leader, he quickly noticed that we had the playground to ourselves.
“Now everybody look through your viewers!” Mrs. Tissue-Sleeve called out. But it was over before it started. It was Friday. We were already wound up for the weekend. Nothing was happening with the dots in the boxes. That happened tomorrow.
We bolted for the merry-go round, and the slide, and the swings. Spontaneous recess broke out right there behind W.R. Croman Elementary. Mrs. Tissue-Sleeve tried her best to pick up the viewers as they were abandoned, one by one, to the March breeze. Soon they were mostly out of sight. We were to be forgiven, I think. In the third grade, a bonus recess is a pretty cosmic event, too.
During the spring and summer months my father taught driver’s education at the high school. On Saturday mornings we met his buddies at the donut shop. I miss my dad. I am still going out for donuts.
I like to think that’s what we were doing Saturday morning, March 7, 1970.
As we were getting our coats on, my mother quite likely called from upstairs, “It’s the eclipse today! Don’t look at the sun! You’ll hurt your eyes!”
“Bye Mom!” I’m almost certain I would have called, banging down the front steps at top speed.
In the car, I’m sure I would have asked my father if he was going to look at the sun and see the eclipse. “No. You heard you mother. You’ll go blind!”
“I won’t look at the sun, Dad,” I would have said. “I’ll be good.”
“You’d better. You should listen to Mom,” he no doubt would have added, backing the car out of the driveway.
“Can I get two donuts today, Dad?”
“Nice try,” he smiled, I’m certain, pointing the car toward town now. “Nice try.”
Mike Rusinko is a Commercial Lender at Lyons National Bank. His writing has appeared in the Finger Lakes Times and other publications. He and his wife Carol live in Penn Yan.
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