Forty three years ago today, my brother and I were upstairs at my grandparents house in Edmonds. There had been a very loud boom, and my grandparents thought that one of us had fallen out of bed.
We were staying with my grandparents because my parents had been in Winston-Salem, North Carolina for a conference for my dad’s work. They were flying back from Atlanta that day.
That was the day that Mt. St. Helens exploded. My mom got some great photos of it from the plane as they flew back from Atlanta.
It is the year we learned about a crotchety old man name Harry S. Truman, who was an innkeeper on Mt. St. Helens who refused to leave “his mountain.” He died in the eruption of Mt. St. Helens. Along with a few others.
Ash spread far and wide and drifted (from what I understand) even to Japan.
It was a crazy day. Probably one of the biggest events of my early childhood that I remember.