The Day of Gray Snow

Disclaimer. The names used in this story are real. The events surrounding John&Christie, and the Morris/Seibold family are probable renactments. My condolances go out to the families of those named here. -- JoAnn



         A light wind sighed and sifted through the maidenhair ferns, momentarily revealing the dappled back of a young fawn left to sleep and hide while a young whitetail doe fed nearby. This was the second spring of the doe; the yearling had survived the harsh winter to mature into a vibrant, healthy creature. This was her first fawn; the young doe was exceptionally cautious and nervous about feeding in the open. She abruptly swung her head to snap at a nagging deer fly, stomping her right hind hoof in annoyance. The ground radiated warmth, and this warmth lured the crickets and grasshoppers; they filled the gentle spring morning with their vibrato symphony. A plump gray squirrel tail-flicked its way down the sticky bark of a Douglas Fir, pausing a few feet from the ground to carefully search for danger. Overhead, a large crow rode the thermal currents and the doe carefully looked about before greedily browsing on the delicate spring shoots of wild grasses, sorrel, clover and bracken ferns.
         The ground trembled slightly and she froze, mid-step, her dark nose twitching as her tail began to rise in alarm. The forest went silent, as if holding its breath; the ground trembled again, this time with more violence. The silence of the forest was replaced with a strange rumbling sound, growing louder with each passing second. The young doe lurched sideways, catching her footing as the shaking subsided. She looked towards her fawn as a strange blanket of darkness began to envelop the tall firs and the first gray snowflake fell. The doe turned her head forward as a terrible sound roared and echoed down the mountainside towards her. She stepped towards the ferns as the spotted fawn lifted its head from the ground; its dark eyes searching upwards. The nothingness enveloped them.

         The day promised to be a beautiful spring morning; the light, cool air was delicately scented with early lilacs. The park was quiet this early in the morning; the manicured lawn still sparkled with iridescent drops of dew. Small pools of sunlight danced and receded across the park just to my right; I carefully unzipped and spread out a bluish-green sleeping bag directly in the path of the sun's eventual ascension over the treetops. I kept a watchful eye on three children as they sat on a park bench, devouring the hot contents of a white McDonalds bag. I quickly unloaded the rest of the car, depositing a small Styrofoam ice chest, an overstuffed diaper bag, and a canvas bag onto the sleeping bag. I flopped down onto the blanket, wiggling my bare feet in the wet grass before sitting cross-legged. I retrieved a dog-eared crossword puzzle book and a pencil from the battered, green canvas bag, then glanced up to offer a bemused smile to my son as he approached me. The three year old toddler threw down the remainder of his Egg McMuffin onto the sleeping bag then began to run after the two older children, calling out, "Mber, Mber, Pawl?.I go too!" He paused suddenly, looking back at me, one thumb in his mouth, the other one pointing towards the older children.
         I thumbed towards the expert section of the puzzle book as I looked over towards the older children, "Paul? Amber? Wait up for Joel." I gave my dark-haired child a smile of encouragement, "Go ahead, you can go play, hurry up." The excited toddler charged through the thick sea of sparkling grass; his happy shrieks a warm sound to my heart. The three children ran towards the old wooden jungle gym equipment, and I savored the sounds of happy children. I lit a cigarette and stretched backwards, my puzzle book forgotten for the moment, as my gaze studied the thick, wrinkled trunk of a gnarly oak a few yards off to my right.
         God! What a perfect day to spend at the park. I wonder how Kathy and Dan are doing in Coeur d'Alene. I'm happy they decided to get married. I bet they got drunker than shit last night. I chuckled as I pictured my best friend and her new husband starting their first day of married life hung-over, broke and out of dope. I sighed as the black tentacles of guilt began to weave their way into my thoughts as I regarded my own mate-less life. Blah. I had always made bad choices when it came to men except for one time. I sighed again as I tried to remember his name, his face a vague collage of my numerous lovers over the past seven years. He had blue eyes and a nice smile, and because he was nice, I treated him like shit. Nice boys don't want chicks like me. I blinked back tears and inwardly growled as I tried to get my act together.
         The wind shifted slightly and I wrinkled my nose as the smell of lilacs was now tinged by an odd odor. I looked towards the kids playing near the edge of Reany Creek and called out a warning, "Paul, don?t let Joel get too close to the water okay? Hey you guys come back towards me." I inhaled the last of the cigarette and carefully ground it out. My gaze moved towards the west where a thin, ominous line of darkness loomed on the horizon. Shit. I sighed and called over the three kids, "Are you guys done eating? We might have to leave in awhile, it looks like it's going to rain."

         The early morning mist rose like ghostly fingers from the calm surface of the lake, stretching upwards towards the pale cream moon. The full moon, tinged by a faint rosy corona, bathed the entire area with the last remnants of its silver luminescence. The cool morning air was alive with the sounds of frogs and crickets, punctuated occasionally by the spine-tingling sound of a loon. Silently, a red canoe slipped through the wispy tendrils of mist, a dark green fly line trailing behind on either side of the canoe's gentle wake.
         The occupants of the canoe, a young woman and her husband, sipped steaming coffee from battered thermos cups. The man pulled in the oars, resting them as he let the canoe slowly glide to stillness. He leaned forward to plant a light kiss on the mouth of his wife, murmuring, "I love you." The woman's fly pole jerked against the edge of the canoe and she reluctantly broke off the kiss, her voice husky with the new bloom of love, "I got the first bite, you owe me breakfast."
         The young woman carefully reeled in her line and released the small trout; they had no interest in keeping nor eating their catch. Instead, the young couple sat, spellbound, as they watched the intricate feeding dance of the trout, leaping with such precision, their rainbow-hued sides sparkling in the beautiful glow of early dawn. Small herds of whitetail deer slipped through the ghostly mist to the edge of the lake to drink. Flocks of Canadian geese, mallards, pintails, and mergansers slowly swam past the couple, disappearing into the mist.
         The sun crept towards the treetops as the young anglers fished and enjoyed the serenity of the picturesque lake. The fragrant smell of alder wood smoke slowly drifted over the lake and the young couple knew the old proprietor, Harry, was up and stoking the cooking fires. "I'd rather eat Harry's cooking than yours," the young newlywed teased her husband. "I'm hungry," the man agreed with a tender smile as he kissed her hands, "But I'm not talking about food right now." The young bride blushed and leaned forward to place a kiss upon her husband's lips. The couple held hands as the canoe drifted gently atop the lake's mirrored surface, more enraptured with each other, than with fishing. For them, time slowed down to a mere whisper of a breath.
         The canoe shook gently and the young husband whispered, "Damn Christie, you even get the boat all shook up." The young woman pulled back to regard her lover, "I thought it was y-?" she suddenly gripped the sides of the canoe as the lake shuddered all around them. "E-Earthq-quake?" she managed to get out before a terrible sound roared towards them. The young woman grabbed for her husband's hands, screaming "JOHN!" before an old-growth red cedar tree slammed into the canoe with the fury of a hurricane.

         I shifted uneasily as the western horizon grew darker and larger; the storm appeared to moving much faster than I thought. I lit another cigarette, then exhaled slowly as I glanced at my watch. Hm. It's only 9:30. I'll give the kids another 30 minutes. Maybe I'll take them to the matinee at the Old Post Office or something, they've been awfully good, I gotta admit that. I will be glad when Dan and Kathy get back tonight. I wanna sleep in my own bed and I think Joel misses his crib. The thought of my bed brought a surge of pain as the image of Bobby filled my mind. Our off and on relationship over the past three years always left me drained, emotionally more than anything else. This time, we were off again, by now his kids and him were waking up to the misty skies of Seattle. Jesus Jo Ann, you need someone stable in your life, doesn't matter what color he is, you need stability more than anything else. Joel needs a father - you need something better than this. I always hated arguments with myself; most of the time I won, but sometimes my inner self had the upper hand. See what happens when you are brutally honest with yourself? You think you one bad ass bitch, but you all messed up inside. You gotta stop picking yourself apart. Oh go to hell, I tell myself.
         I noticed for the first time that the wind had picked up some, definitely tinged with an acrid smell. Towards the west, the bank of dark clouds was larger and I tried to estimate how much time we had left. I glanced down at the remains of the children's breakfast strewn across the blanket then picked up a piece of an English muffin. I tossed the muffin in the direction of an inquisitive squirrel, snorting under my breath, as the squirrel seemed to look back at me with disdain. "Stupid ass squirrel, beggars can't be choosy, you get what you get" The sound of a crying toddler shattered my musings and I turned towards the swing set. Joel was fighting with Amber over the elephant swing; the toddler was doggedly holding onto one end screaming "MINE! MINE! MY SWING!" I started to say something when another movement caught my attention and I turned my head slightly to find a tall, grungy figure striding quickly across the park towards our general location. Although I did not know his name, I knew him by sight; he lived in one of the rundown houses near the trailhead of the park's bicycle path.
         The man spotted my small entourage and veered towards us, "You gotta go, the end of the world is upon us." His long, unwashed hair whipped about him, caught by the rising wind. I tried to be calm and nonchalant as I told him to go away because he was scaring the children. The man steadily regarded me, his broken nose hooked like a beak over his thin graying beard, "Look lady, I just fucking told ya, it's the end of the world!" He didn't wait for my response, but turned to head back towards his run-down house. I snapped back, sarcastically, "What? Lemme guess, the mountain blew or something?" Yes, I was being totally asinine but I wasn't going to let a druggie scare the shit of out me, or the kids. The man turned to look at me and simply said, "Yah," before running across the park towards the edge of the bikeway. I felt as if a Kenworth truck had just hit me; I screamed for the kids and frantically began to collect the blankets and food.

         Kevin Morris played with his sister Michele in the back seat of their parent's brown sedan as they drove south down I-5 from Olympia towards Castle Rock. A red child's tape recorder lay between them, and they took turns making silly noises as the other one recorded. Their stepfather, Ronald Seibold, glanced back at the kids in his rear view mirror and smiled at their silly antics. He reached a hand out to pat the knee of his wife Barbara, giving the warm flesh a gentle squeeze. "Think we picked a good day to visit, you think?"
         Michele and Kevin bounced in their seats; they were excited at the prospect of having a picnic and if they were lucky, their dad would rent a canoe and take them out on the lake. They had left their home in Tumwater at 6 am, stopping briefly to pick up breakfast. Their destination was a day of exploring Spirit Lake. Barbara leaned forward to fiddle with the radio dials, presently coming to 102.9 FM, or KMiNT as the locals called the country western station. She slid a pair of rosy-pink sunglasses onto her nose and turned her head to look back at her kids. "Don't ah look fab-u-gorg-u-lous?" she announced with a fake twang. The kids giggled with delight; seven-year-old Kevin announced, "Yes ma'am, now when we gonna go to Tennispee?" The deliberate mispronounced word caused nine-year-old Michele to snicker and poke her brother in the side. "You gonna be the horse's butt on Hee Haw."
         Ronald stifled a chuckle as he kept his gaze on the freeway; thankfully few cars were traveling at 7 am on a Sunday morning. Michele piped up, "Mom, are we going to see the mountain?" Barbara finished the remains of a powdered donut and nodded, "Yup, we are." A refrigerated Fred Meyer tractor-trailer thundered past the small brown car heading southward towards Portland, and Kevin belatedly gave a yanking motion with his left hand. "Oh poop!" he announced, "I missed the truck!" He sulked for awhile until Michele turned to punch him in the side, "Slug Bug blue, no tag backs." The blonde-haired boy stuck out his tongue at his dark-haired sister, his blue eyes sparkling with unbridled mischief.
         The miles rolled past gentle, lush dairy lands, dotted with thriving communities: Lacey, Oakville, Grand Mound, Centralia, Chehalis, and finally to the turnoff at Castle Rock. Robert pointed towards the left, "Look kids, you can see the mountain." Kevin pushed his nose against the left window, "Dad, we gonna see it erupt, huh huh?" Robert looked back in his rearview mirror, "I hope so, be kinda cool, doncha think?" The kids giggled, then Michele grew solemn, "You think the mountain's safe?" A short silence, then the parents quickly, if not too cheerfully, assured the children there was no danger, that they would be safe. The brown sedan took the off-ramp leading towards Spirit Lake.

         "I want my mommy, I want my mommy!" Blonde-haired Amber, only five-years old, was in tears, tugging on my arm as she looked up at me with water-filled blue eyes. Paul, more stoic than his younger sister, still looked rather shaken for a nine-year old, his freckled face pale against his dark hair. We sat inside my old '74 green Vega, as the first flakes of gray snow began to fall. Amber's tears stirred Joel into action and the confused toddler began to cry as well. My fingers tightened around the worn leather covering the steering wheel; I really needed a cigarette, but I wouldn't light up in front of the kids. The crying subsided as the gray snow began to fall heavier; all three children were peering out the back windows of the small car. The darkness began to descend, and the heavy carpet of gray clouds caused the streetlights to flicker into life.
         I turned over the ignition, holding my breath as the engine caught and sputtered into action. The silent, steady fall of gray snow was so eerie, as I backed and turned the Vega around in the small parking lot. The children began coughing and choking, and I quickly off the ventilation and heater. A light misting of ash floated down inside the car, coating all of us. Joel promptly began sneezing and I began to worry about how my asthma would react to all of the ash and stress. Carefully, we crept out onto Main Street and towards downtown Pullman.
         The streets were nearly empty with the exception of a few downtown shoppers who stood outside, their faces looking skyward in disbelief. The streetlights swung back and forth, changing colors to an empty audience. The gray snow continued to fall, a hellish winter scene in late spring. Everything was covered with ash; stalled cars littered the streets and the vision was strangely reminiscent of the nuclear winter images I had seen or read in apocalyptic movies and books. A police car sped past us, its red lights flashing, making a wide, right arc around the corner to speed towards the north. "Are we going to ... die?" Paul's voice was sliding towards the soprano end of the scale. I looked in my rearview mirror at the young, bespectacled boy. "No, Paul, we will be fine, just be quiet, okay?" Oh God, are we going to die? Oh please God, I'm not ready to die, please don't do this, please watch over us. Paul's question had mirrored my own unspoken one, and I was truly frightened of this unfamiliar situation.
         Is Paula okay? What about Gladys and Ole, are they all right? Oh God, I gotta call them. Inwardly, I tried not to panic as my thoughts turned to my sister and foster parents nestled between the three volcanic giants: Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Adams and Mt. Rainier. I was afraid to breathe, fearful that I would start screaming and never stop. I tried to squeeze back the tears, but I had been caught off guard, and my imagination ran with the horrible images of my family in flames.
         We stopped at Finchs Market to pick up milk and cigarettes. The children and I watched, in astonishment, as people ran through the store, grabbing for milk, bread and other edible foods. I quickly added two more gallons of milk, several cans of Nalleys chili, several boxes of Kraft Mac & Cheese, and a bag of diapers to my cart. The children were unusually subdued, and I tossed in a bag of miniature candy bars. As an afterthought, I went back and purchased three gallons of water. The old Vega coughed and sputtered in the thick ash, and somehow crept up Taylor Way towards Kathy and Dan's duplex.

         A young mother rocked her sandy-headed two-year old on her hip as she stood, warming a bottle on the stove. She surveyed the neatly wrapped contents of the day's outing: several deviled ham sandwiches, a peanut butter and raspberry jam sandwich, several thick slabs of a still-warm applesauce cake, a couple bags of BBQ potato chips, a six pack of Pepsi Cola, and several thick ropes of deer sausage. Outside her window, the sky was quickly turning dark and she frowned.          "Gus!" she bellowed towards the backdoor where her husband was reeling new fishing line on a steelhead pole. "Gus, better toss a tarp or something in the back, its going to rain." The young woman brushed back some dark hair from her face and mentally went over the list of food, diapers and clothing she had packed for a day of steel heading on the Cowlitz River. Normally, since it was the end of the spring run, the fishing wasn?t all that great; the steelhead tended to be soft and always seemed to taste like shit. But Gus wanted to go fishing and Gus always got what he wanted. She tested the bottle, then set her son and his bottle on the brown linoleum floor.
         Quickly, she gathered an armload of blankets and a battered red cooler then side-stepped towards the back door. She could see her husband's broad back as he stood, one booted foot resting atop a chopping block, reeling line onto a new steelhead spool. Outside, the air had a strong, acrid taste and the young mother coughed and looked towards the east, the tall trees all but darkening her view. "Gus you smell that? Think there's a fire over on Soldier Mountain?" A non-committal grunt from her husband, and the dark-haired young woman made a face at his broad back. "Gus, I?m talking to you! You gonna take the four-wheeler out of the back aint ya or you planning on taking it too?" She paused, waiting for a response from her husband.
         The short, broad man stopped reeling line and turned to face his wife, spitting a chew of tobacco onto the bark-covered ground. "Jesus, Paula! Just shove the shit back there somewhere?" her husband growled. The young woman's hazel eyes narrowed with anger, but any retort was lost as the ground suddenly lurched and she fell against the side of the old blue half-ton pickup. She caught herself, protectively placing a hand across her bulging belly as she looked up as gray snow began to fall. "Oh holy shit." she breathed as her husband's callused hand jerked her arm towards the back door.

         Three frightened children huddled beneath blankets on the couch, staring out the window. I ignored Dan's NO SMOKING sign as I shakily punched in the number to 217 Frost Creek Road, Glenoma, Washington - a place that surely no longer existed. I growled as an operator intercept came onto inform me that all lines west of the Cascades were experiencing difficulty. I paced the kitchen floor, finishing my cigarette, then lighting another one. Joel whimpered he was hungry, and I realized that I was probably scaring him.
         Paul stirred enough to slip from beneath the blanket to turn on the television. As I prepared a quick soup and sandwich lunch for the children and myself, I listened to the news. All the major channels were urging their listeners to remain calm. The female anchor on KXLY tearfully reported that Mt. St. Helen's had erupted at 8:32 am in response to a 5.1 magnitude earthquake approximately one mile beneath the volcano. The northern flank of the volcano had collapsed, resulting in massive debris landslides and had produced an ash plume that was estimated at 20 km in height. "All telephone lines servicing the southwest portion of Washington State are down and the eastern Washington and Northern Idaho chapters of the American Red Cross encourage you to call the numbers flashing at the bottom of your screen if you are trying to reach relatives on the west coast." I listened in stunned silence as a live video feed showed a young reporter standing in a Safeway parking lot in Moses Lake. He explained that an estimated 300 travelers were stranded and that the highways and interstate routes appeared to be closed.
         My appetite was gone and while the children ate, I stepped outside to the shelter of the carport to enjoy a cigarette and a beer I had swiped from Dan's stash in the bottom of the refrigerator. Dead robins or crows, it was hard to tell, littered the small gray lawn. I heard a small meow and saw a mass of whitish-gray fur hiding behind the garbage cans. It was the cat that belonged to the tenants in the downstairs duplex. I quickly tossed my cigarette out into the thick blanket of ash on the lawn, and coaxed the cat from behind the cans. I slid open the glass patio door and the cat ran inside, hiding behind the television stand.
         Four-thirty in the afternoon and it looked like midnight outside. I let Paul and Amber sleep in their mom and dad's bed. I sat on the edge of the queen-size bed, holding Joel in my lap, as I tried to reassure and comfort the worried children. Finally, I took Joel back to the living room and set him down on his favorite quilt with some toys. I sank onto the couch and for the first time since that morning, felt the enormity of the day descend upon me. News feeds showed destroyed homes floating down a swollen Toutle River, taking out bridges and sections of roads, as it raged towards the Columbia River. News reports indicated that the lateral blast northward had formed a fan-shaped zone of destruction, estimated to be at least 20-30 miles long at its apex.
         A small weight crawled up onto the couch and slid across my lap. I blinked back tears as I looked down into the big brown eyes of my son. Joel reached up to touch my cheeks, "Momma crying??" he asked in his small inquisitive voice, and I hugged him tightly against my breasts. What could I tell my son, that his aunt and uncle, and foster grandparents had gone to heaven? How could I tell him that the places I had loved with all my heart were gone? How could I explain the inexplicable sadness and desolation I felt? How was I going to face life without my sister? I had dealt with the loss of my parents, hiding my feelings from those around me, determined to be strong despite the uncertainty of my future. I had dealt with the loss of my first foster-mother; forced to leave behind the last fragile ribbons of my childhood, forced to deal with the mantle of responsibility for my younger sister. All I had now was my son. I felt trapped and unable to breathe. I rocked Joel to sleep, my tears wetting his baby quilt.
         I was alone, alone with my young child and the children of my best friend. I was alone with the realization that for all I knew the place I had loved with all my heart, as well as my family, were gone - vaporized.

         Paula peered anxiously out the screened front window of their living room, trying to see through the heavy blizzard of ash, pinecones, twigs, small sticks, and other debris. Next to the living room door, Bo and Booner, two short hair Blue Heelers, whined anxiously, their long claws digging into the wooden door. "Bo! Booner! Knock that shit off!" Gus? voice thundered down the long hallway of the trailer, as he stepped out of the bathroom, zipping up his fly. The pair of hunting dogs slunk underneath the kitchen table, still whining. "You see any headlights yet?" her husband inquired as he opened up the refrigerator door and pulled out a can of Rainer. "No, I can't see anything, it's too windy and dark out there." Paula instinctively jerked her head back as a flash of metal sailed past the window and disappeared into the darkness.
         "Did you try to call your mom and dad to see if they are home?" Paula turned to look at her husband, the woman's long fingers intertwined into the crocheted afghan spread across the back of the couch. Gus simply snorted under his breath and stalked towards the front door, gripping the worn doorknob. He tried to shoulder the door open, but the intensity of the wind was stronger. "Maybe you should try the phones? See if they are working?" Paula offered helpfully as she turned to look back out the window. Her stocky husband simply grunted and dropped down into his favorite recliner, tipping back the can of beer. Her own thoughts raced wildly as she tried to comprehend the past few hours. Instinctively she knew what had happened, it was just so overwhelming. Thank God, Gladys and Ole are in Bellingham. I don?t think Mom coulda made it through this; she woulda had a heart attack on the spot. I need to call them to let them know we are okay. God I bet JoAnn is trying to call, I better hurry up and call Mom.
         The tall, slender woman rose from the couch, cringing as something scraped across the top of their trailer and she crossed the few feet to the avocado-colored phone on the kitchen counter. The phone was dead. She pressed a few buttons, but there was still nothing. "Great. Just great." Paula pinched the bridge of her nose, then voiced her inner thoughts, "What are we going to do Gus? What if everything is ... gone?" She dared not look at him for fear of showing how afraid she was. Gus slowly crunched a beer can in his left hand, then wetted his lips before replying, "I don't know Paula, I just don't know."
         The lights suddenly flickered and Paula quickly lit one of the kerosene lanterns hanging on the wall next to the door. The heavy smell of lantern fuel filled the living room just as the electricity sputtered and died. Gus stared off into space as his wife lit another lantern, placing it on the kitchen counter. Silently, the young woman walked down the long hallway to the bedroom at the end. She peered over the edge of the crib at her sleeping toddler, then turned the wick down until a faint glow illuminated the dark room. Paula threw herself across the double bed, then curled up into a little ball, trying to shut out the wind and the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

         Three days passed before I was able to make contact with the west side of the state. Much to my great and teary relief, my sister and her family were alive and had suffered only minor property damage. My foster parents had spent a few unsettling days in Bellingham, unable to get back home because of road closures. If the eruption had occurred the next day my foster father would have lost his life, along with his entire logging crew of 17 men. All of their logging equipment on Soldier Ridge was gone; later discovered partially buried thousands of feet in the canyons below. I was relieved my family was alive, but I mourned the loss of places I had considered home. I had camped on the shores and had fished the shallow, crystal waters of Spirit Lake; the beautiful lake was now a memory. The old-growth forests around Ryan Lake were gone. The incredible, breathtaking beauty of Crystal Falls was buried beneath tons of ash and pumice. I knew I had to make the journey to the mountain. Two years would pass before my son and I would make that journey to the blast zone. For me, it was time to say goodbye to the places that were now memories, it was to be a time of closure.




This was written as my final long memoir for a class I took this spring at the University of Idaho.