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Commentary
Eclipses are certain. Most everything else is not
In late summer 2017, my partner Ken and I were heading home from our annual summer escape to the White Mountains in New Hampshire. We’d become regulars over the years — at the summer stock theatre, chamber music concerts, swimming holes and Bishop's ice cream (mine with sprinkles). There had been a total eclipse of the sun in August that year, but far away from northern New England. We wondered whether to witness one really is, as they say, life changing.
Ken knew a bit about eclipses, having pitched in with editorial suggestions on our friend David Baron’s book, “American Eclipse,” about the 1878 celestial event. As the stars would have it, Ken realized that the next total eclipse would follow a path directly over the small New Hampshire town we often visited: Lancaster. Lancaster has steepled white clapboard churches and an agricultural fair with sheepherding dogs that have the best darned skulking skills around.
As we drove home that August afternoon, Ken popped the question: How ‘bout if we reserve a room for the next eclipse?
Sure! I said. When is it?
His reply: Not ‘til 2024, whenever that is.
Right then, Ken pulled over to the side of the road and we searched Google to find a Lancaster motel. Ken called and said the clerk was pleasantly surprised to learn about the eclipse — seven years away — and reserved three nights for us.
Ken put away his credit card, thought for a moment, and said "20-24? I could be DEAD by then!" The prospect was laughable and horrifying. He was healthy, fit, and, as he often bragged, aerobicized, going to classes three times a week. I waved off his remark and he penciled the reservation into his Sierra Club datebook. We drove home with the happy assurance of a wildly fun date seven years hence.
Celestial events operate on a tight clock ... All we on Earth can do is to reserve a motel room, get the safety glasses, and excitedly await the date.
The eclipse we locked into our schedules so long ago is now a couple of days away. Celestial events operate on a tight clock. Astronomers predict the date and path of an eclipse decades in the future. All we on Earth can do is to reserve a motel room, get the safety glasses and excitedly await the date.
About a year after Ken made our reservation, a nagging pain in his stomach led to a major diagnosis. A little more than a year after that — a few weeks after we made another trip to our favorite White Mountains spots — Ken lost his fight with pancreatic cancer.
I hadn't thought much about the eclipse and our motel stay until the past few months. Ken was the planner in our long relationship. He would’ve started to pack for the trip weeks ago, with a special folder for the movie schedule and ice cream coupons, and a carrying case for his beloved CDs. He’d have customized his picks for the occasion — likely Van Morrison’s “Moondance," Terence Blanchard’s “Wandering Moon,” and Louis Armstrong’s version of “East of the Sun (West of the Moon”).
In true Ken-fashion, he transferred the reservation information to his newest datebook each year, alongside reminders to buy a new mattress and check the gutters. Months before he died in 2019, he’d already updated his 2020 datebook.
In true Lisa-fashion, I misplaced that book amid my Kenefemera.
Every day, over the past month, I searched my house in a mild state of panic. Each website and news story that excitedly counted down the number of days until the eclipse felt foreboding. A reminder of a rendezvous that wouldn't happen.
Finally, two weeks ago, I found Ken’s datebook in a very special place: under a pile of newspapers. I flipped to the last page and saw the notation there in his tidy editor’s script — the motel name and dates we’d planned to stay. But there was no confirmation number.
I called the motel. Twice. The woman at the front desk assured me (more than twice) that she had no record of our reservation; maybe it was lost during the transfer of ownership a few years ago, she told me. Did I want to make a fresh reservation for the “eclipse special package” of two nights for two people at $2,000? I don’t think so. If our original reservation existed, I would have asked a friend to join me. But it doesn't.
The eclipse will arrive Monday afternoon. Predictions about dark and light will be unshakably precise. We knew all that seven years ago.
What this heavenly event reminds me, is that we can only plan around the edges and prepare and pack and anticipate — and hope. On Monday, I’ll witness the eclipse from home. Maybe, though outside the path of totality, I’ll feel the grandeur, even with the void. That would, indeed, be life changing.
