At 12:30 p.m., the tiniest dent could be seen in the orange disc of the sun through the darkened glasses officially sanctioned for eclipse viewing. And slowly but surely, more and more of the sun disappeared into a coin of darkness.  By the time the moon had passed in front of 80 percent of the sun’s face, a semblance of morning or dusk began to be felt, then seen, then felt all the more as the sun’s face at last was reduced to a fiery crescent and then a fallen, burnt orange C, then a mere pinpoint of red that soon vanished just as Venus appeared to the slight southwest. 

Children paused in their playing of beanbag, their jumping in the bouncy castle (which was deflated) and their play among one another to put on their glasses and look. Adults got quiet.  Bonnie Raitt’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” being played on Klipsch speakers, came to its coda. But the sun could not be seen. You had to take off your glasses to take in the sight of the dark star the moon made of it, surrounded by a golden haze and extending tendrils that reminded me of needing a haircut. 

What you heard were soft voices from people trying to imagine the words to answer what they were seeing and settling for less.  I only managed a wow and an oh my.  I was glad to not to be the two of my colleagues who were narrating, but they did so much better than I could. The term dumbstruck was literal for me. I just wanted to hug somebody. 

It seemed like only a matter of seconds before sun and moon began visibly taking their separating paths.  Back on went the glasses. We saw the C emerge again, with little red beads caused by the rough surface of that edge of the moon. Then the crescent grew and we started to believe we had actually been here to see it.  The Arkansas total eclipse of 1918 had been a disappointment to our great-grandparents because of the thick clouds, but this one had found its crevice between the mountains of cumulus and had bathed its watchers for a brief time in a startling shadow and allowed us the sight of more than a lifetime.  And we’ll be grateful for it the rest of ours. 

After the totality and before 20 percent of the sun was back, they aired up the bouncy castle again and back came the music.  I heard a boy exclaiming how cool it had all been and asking what year we’d see another. Not till 2044 I told him, when he’ll be 36 and I’ll be 71.  

We’re both eclipse chasers for life. Now if we can just think of a place to store our glasses for 21 years. 

(First 12 photos by April Lovette. Last two by Jeff Smithpeters)