It was a blast

Living next to the local airport does has its advantages. We especially appreciated our close proximity back in the late '70s whenever the big air show came to town. While most spectators had to pay a hefty price to watch the vintage planes and aerobatic pilots swoop through the skies overhead, we just set up our lawnchairs in the barnyard.

We made a lot of new acquaintances this way, and they weren't the four-legged kind. Each year about an hour or so before the show was to begin, cars and, even in one case, a huge motorhome from British Columbia, would pull into the driveway.

"Do ya mind if we park here to watch the show?" they'd ask.

"Not at all; the more the merrier," we'd say, inviting them to our barnyard reviewing stand.

This was so much fun, I even planned my annual Monticola yearbook picnic one year for Air Show day. Our crowd numbered nearly 30 on that May 18 in 1980. As students and strangers began to arrive, I started noticing that deep purple cloud slowly moving in over the mountains to the southwest.

"I wonder if that could be that volcano," I said. My husband Bill, who wore contacts at the time, pooh-poohed my speculation, suggesting we were probably in for a big thunder storm. So, we continued on greeting guests and inviting the the newly met freeloaders to take part in our picnic.

As the air show began, the cloud got closer. We'd just about consumed our fill of hamburgers and hotdogs when Bill started rubbing his eyes. For some odd reason, his contacts were irritating him. Moments later, we knew it wasn't a thunderstorm as bits of ash became clearly visible.

Within minutes, the air show had shut down, the kids and strangers were hurrying out the driveway, hoping to get home before the quickly forming eery, dark grey cloud of approaching dust completely obstructed their vision.

All left but my friend Pam. She lived just a mile or so away, but she was afraid to go home to an empty house on this strangest of all days any of us had ever encountered. The unknown effects of that volcanic eruption more than 300 miles away had suddenly changed us all, making us fearful and apprehensive.

During this time, scenes from that movie On the Beach began to play back in my mind---the part where the characters knew an atom bomb had exploded thousands of miles away, killing most of the world's population. Its cloud was slowly headed their way, allowing them time to ponder what it would be like when their lives would end.

Well, we weren't so afraid of impending death that day in 1980, but we were definitely wondering how this geologic event would affect our future. Eventually, Pam called and learned her boyfriend had come home. She left, a bit apprehensive about embarking through the gloomy, ominous atmosphere toward home. Within a few minutes, though, she called, letting us know she'd made it home okay.

Hard to believe that was 25 years ago today. Everybody's got their story. Anyone who was alive, aware and living in the Northwest can spout out immediately the specific details of the day, whom they were with, where the rest of their family was, and how they spent the next few days.

In our case, we did a lot of talking on the phone, not much housework, a lot of TV watching and frequent checking on the animals to see that they were okay.

I'll still never forget about four or five days into the aftermath, hearing for the first time the sound of a small plane flying overhead. All had been still and silent for so long. To hear this dull roar breaking the silence sent my eyes toward the sky. The ash cloud was gradually dissipating, and I even caught a glimpse of blue sky as the plane flew over where I stood.

Maybe this is finally going to end, I thought. Sure enough, the ash eventually disappeared, and life returned to a somewhat normal state. Nonetheless, we lived in nervous expectation of the unknown effects and subsequent eruptions for several weeks afterward.

We survived it all with few problems and even a very welcome early-summer closure of schools that year. My photographer cousin Doug shot a series of pictures as the cloud came over his back yard in Ephrata. One photo ended up on the cover of the 1981 National Geographic. Mt. St. Helens definitely provided an indelible lifetime experience for all involved.

Unfortunately, the damage costs incurred by air show planes meant no more barnyard freebies at the Love house. There's never been another local air show since that day.