The cosmos have always fascinated me. I will forever be one of those people who look up at the night sky, fascinated (and somewhat envious) of the sheer infinity of it all. My mother bought me a colorfully illustrated book of the solar system when I was in grade school, and I’ve rarely looked down since. The great expanse of outer space has never made me feel small. To the contrary, it makes me feel invigorated and alive.
The best part of living on a farm, for me, are the walks. I miss one aspect of milking cows — the half-mile walk home after chores after dark. On moonlit nights, the countryside glows. On starlit nights, I can look into the night sky and catch a glimpse of infinity, and what a privilege! In the sacredness of a quiet, starlit night, the universe speaks. Without the distractions that define daytime and human interactions, if you can work past the intimidation of the night silence, it is a grounding experience.
Thus, it was no question at all — I had to travel south in order to catch the Monday, April 8 solar eclipse. Wouldn’t you know it — a longtime family friend lives in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, which was slated to fall dead-center in the path of totality. For the event, we picked a vacant grass lot outside my friend’s machine shop. Here, we would enjoy a completely unobstructed view, in total privacy. The day of the eclipse in Cape Girardeau boasted a bluebird sky, a comfortable wind, and a daytime temperature in the upper, balmy 70s. Dads making groan-worthy jokes everywhere, unite: You could say, the stars aligned.
During the eclipse, the moon crept across the face of the sun. Without the benefit of protective eyewear, this phenomenon was impossible to discern. In fact, the moon had nearly blocked the sun completely, with only a slice of unobstructed sunlight, before the effect could be noticed. At mid-afternoon on an otherwise sunny day in Southeast Missouri; the kind of early summer day that catches you in shorts and a t-shirt with an early-season sunburn, this is how it felt:
The first indication of the impending totality was dusk. The air felt eerie and unsettled, with a sense that something unusual was about to happen. As we sat in our grass lot, the air felt electric. By now, only a tiny sliver of unobstructed sunlight remained. At 1:57 p.m. local time, it felt like the sun was setting below the horizon, even though it was high overhead.
In the dusk, crickets and night insects began to call out. It’s one of those things you take for granted — there are natural sounds that accompany a setting sun at the end of a long day. To hear these sounds in the middle of the afternoon is, for lack of a better word — weird. The air cooled off. The breeze that we had enjoyed all day quietly died down. Crows and other birds made their sounds that usually trigger emotions of suppertime. Overhead, a few of the brightest stars twinkled — just like dusk. Then came the artificial indicators. All around, streetlights began to flicker on. Automatic car headlights switched on. Security lights with daylight sensors lit up.
At last, the tiniest sliver of remaining sunlight disappeared. Totality! All around, the sounds of celebration erupted. Our empty grass lot was an oasis in the midst of human celebrating, live music, fireworks, food trucks, and cheers. Eerily, the horizon in every direction glowed like the evening sky after sunset. We were treated to the uniqueness of a 360-degree sunset.
Except, wow — what a sight to behold! There, high in the sky, was the unmistakable orb of an afternoon sun, except blotted out perfectly by a pitch-black moon. “Otherworldly” comes close to describing it, but anything other than bearing witness will fall short. I spent a few quiet moments, savoring the uniqueness of totality. It was humbling, yet invigorating. It makes you feel small, yet empowered. All in all, I felt grateful for the privilege of witnessing such a thing.
And then — just like that, it was over. The tiniest sliver of unobstructed sunlight erased the surreality of afternoon dusk. I could see the light approaching from the southwest, and could see the darkness melting away to the northeast along the path of totality. Within minutes, we were back to reality. Back to comfort, and back to predictability.
Quite appropriately, a band fired up a cover of “Draggin’ the Line”, by Tommy James, which was a rather fitting tribute to Green County, Wisconsin, and my hometown of Monroe. If you know the backstory, then you know. Within minutes, the breeze kicked back up, the insects quieted, the streetlights shut off, and the stars flickered out. The distant rumble of aircraft departing Cape Girardeau Regional Airport signaled aircraft departures as pilots headed home.
The solar eclipse of April, 2024 had been predicted for years, down to the minute. Predictability wasn’t always so. From the New York Times regarding an eclipse in 585 B.C., “The eclipse had an immediate worldly impact. The kingdoms of the Medes and Lydian had waged a brutal war for years. But the eclipse was interpreted as a very bad omen, and the armies quickly laid down their arms.”
The cynical side of me wonders, how would people react today if an eclipse happened, and no-one told us it was coming?
— Dan Wegmueller is the owner of Wegmueller Farms and his column appears regularly in the Times. His website is https://www.farmforthought.org.
