We are minutes away from a total solar eclipse, and I am writing in my green notebook, trying to record my impressions of a family trip in search of wonders, a once-in-a-generation celestial event. So rare and special that Sylvester misses a day of fifth grade.
I tell myself he is learning cosmology and planetary movement. You can’t learn that in a classroom. In fact, you can, and he actually did. (We have the artwork.) But here we are, spread out in a communal township in Waterbury, Vermont, along with dozens of other eclipse watchers, counting down to the magical moment.
Why did we write this?
Our correspondent Simon Montlake, like many parents, wanted his son to experience the wonder of a total solar eclipse. As often happens with parenting, the person most in awe of this celestial event was not the fifth grader.
Sylvester looks at my lap. “Will you be able to write in the dark?” he asks.
Sure, I tell him. But when the eclipse happens, I can’t. Words fail me. Or fail them. Then I just pick up my pen. But nothing can measure up to the grandeur of the light we see and the dizzying sensation in which day turns into neither night nor day. It lasts less than three minutes. Three minutes that occupy the head and break the heart.
“I can’t wait for it to get dark,” says Sylvester. He was rocking in his camp chair, as I looked at my son. His dark hair waves over a pair of eclipse goggles as he tilts his head toward the waning afternoon sun.
We are minutes away from a total solar eclipse, and I am writing in my green notebook, trying to record my impressions of a family trip in search of wonders, a once-in-a-generation celestial event. So rare and special that Sylvester misses a day of fifth grade.
I tell myself he is learning cosmology and planetary movement. You can’t learn that in a classroom. In fact, you can, and he actually did. (We have the artwork.) But here we are, spread out in a communal township in Waterbury, Vermont, along with dozens of other eclipse watchers, counting down to the magical moment. We are not the only ones who miss school. The friends went even further north to St. Johnsbury, which is on College Road. Unexpectedly, we meet another family we know from Cambridge, Massachusetts, in general.
Why did we write this?
Our correspondent Simon Montlake, like many parents, wanted his son to experience the wonder of a total solar eclipse. As often happens with parenting, the person most affected by the celestial event was not the fifth grader.
Sylvester looks at my lap. “Will you be able to write in the dark?” he asks.
Sure, I tell him. But when the eclipse happens, I can’t. Words fail me. Or fail them. Then I just pick up my pen. But nothing can measure up to the grandeur of the light we see and the dizzying sensation in which day turns into neither night nor day. It lasts less than three minutes. Three minutes that occupy the head and break the heart.
As the audience cheered and beamed in appreciation of the spectacle, Sylvester turned to me again, his brown eyes no longer hidden by dark plastic panels. “The moon covers the sun! Take a picture of it, Dad.”
But I leave my phone in my bag. I want to listen and watch, and share the moment with my wife, Sylvester and Jane. You can’t put a price on memories. At least, that’s how we justified our last-minute decision to book the last hotel room in town at the peak eclipse rate.
Later, Jane showed me her photos, including photos of the sun she had taken as the moon began its hour-long occultation. We watched its passage across the sun through the eclipse glasses we had packed that morning in Cambridge, and left home at 7am to beat northbound traffic.
“It looks like a croissant,” I said to Sylvester.
He studied it again. “Dad, the colors are changing. It’s more orange now.”
“Okay, then an orange.”
On our way to the general area, I told him about what the Aztecs had seen in a solar eclipse, whose movements they had closely tracked, both for practical reasons—like the Farmer’s Almanac—and to support their cosmological myths. The total eclipse was a moment of danger: a monster threatened to eat the sun god Tonatiuh, plunging humanity into chaos and perpetual darkness. Only proper rituals can ward off disaster. Human sacrifices included. (I did not address this point.)
An Aztec-themed interpretation of the eclipse seemed appropriate. In February, we took a vacation to Mexico City. We spent a sunny day in Teotihuacan, the massive pre-Aztec pyramid ruin, where we walked the Avenue of the Dead. The tourist jewelry seller showed us a smooth piece of obsidian, a black volcanic rock, that fit in Sylvester’s palm.
“Look at the sun,” he told us, and placed the black disc on his eye. We did that, and a red disc appeared. Before eclipse glasses, there was obsidian, which was widely traded throughout Mesoamerica and was made into tools and blades.
Sylvester loved the Pyramid Tour, but Mexico City felt exhausting at times, and he was happy to go home. When I told him in Vermont about the Aztec concept of an eclipse, he didn’t answer. However, later, as we sit on the communal floor, enjoying the dim daylight as the moon slides into place, I try again. “The monster takes bigger bites than the sun,” I say.
He laughs. I suggest that we need to make a sacrifice to save the sun god. My mom has a bag of jalapeno chips. Maybe a slice? He agrees. The slide is a fair presentation.
Then Sylvester told me about a book in the Warriors series, which he had a collection of dog-eared paperbacks. The series features epic wars between feral cat clans living in a Hobbesian world. In this book, he explains that the four clans are fighting for sovereignty. “They are fighting; “Then suddenly everything goes dark,” he says. “They all went running and screaming and screaming into the house. But actually, it was an eclipse, because it was light again.
He continues: The warring cats believed that their ancestors killed the sun “because it was angry at their fighting.” He nodded. So they stop fighting? Yes, in this book, he says.
After the sun reappears, spreading its warmth once again, the crowds in the common town begin to disperse. The streets are filled with cars as eclipse chasers take off. Sylvester is also ready to move on. I prefer to sit longer to watch the moon pass and try to hold on to the feeling of wonder. But it’s time to go.
The next total solar eclipse in August 2026 will not be visible from North America. However, it will pass over Iceland. We know a family who is already looking for a place to stay there. Maybe we should join them. Sylvester wouldn’t even need to miss school.
