I was there when Mount St. Helens blew. But, while things were still “normal,” we used to go up to the mountain and play in the snow in the summer. It always reminded me of an ice cream cone. The locals said the old Indians told them it was a volcano but it probably would never blow again. Never say never.

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It blew in Sunday morning. I overslept and woke up at 10:00. I looked outside because it was still dark. It was snowing – gray snow. I looked for the birds. What did the birds do? I spotted them hopping around or huddled under sturdy, low-branched evergreen trees. The ash fell for days. The speed limit was 10. People were told to wear surgical masks outside and to put pantyhose on their car’s air filter. Entrances into and exits out to the interstate were blocked off. No one could get in or out (except for back roads with inches-high of ash on them). TV went blank. Radio stopped all programming except emergency news and advice.

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A couple of days later, I volunteered to man the telephones where people could call in giving us the name and identifications of lost relatives. And we took calls from the “lost-and-found relatives.” But mostly it was for the lost. I remember hearing about people who were fishing in one of the mountain rivers when it blew and the air was so hot, their lungs were burning. They jumped in the river and went under water as long as they could. Then come up for air but put their wet jacket over their heads to protect them from the “fiery air”.

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It was a strange time of wondering what would be next. I remember hearing a report on the radio that we were at the top of the San Andreas Fault. They killed that story quick! Once the ash stopped falling, the radio told us to go outside and start cleaning up. First was the roofs. Ash is heavy. They told everyone to shovel the ash off their roofs before they collapsed. I saw neighbors getting on the roofs of neighbors who couldn’t climb up there. Then they told us to clean up our lawns. Most used a broom. Finally, they told us to pile all the ash up on the street side of our curb and the local garbage trucks would come pick it up. But still, we had to wear surgical masks – ash has a glass base and would have torn our lungs up.

Then it was over. We still got reports of “tidal waves” rushing down rivers. For a year, we saw the evidence of ash in those “tidal waves” on trees 30 feet up along those rivers. And we re-thought old expressions such as “as old as the hills” and “a solid as a mountain”.

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Well, the years have passed. I was in my 30s at the time. Now I am in my 80s. And, I guess, you could say I became “as old as the hills”.