It must have been a break between films in the early 1980’s when we took a road trip in a camper van, fulfilling one of those American dreams which had so far escaped me.* By that summer the older girls were well on their way with wings fluttering out into the world. So from Big-4 rents we picked out a sleeps-four camper van. I stocked up for cooking-on-the-go and we set off for a week with Walter the Younger and Bea, driving South in the slow lane to Pinnacles and Death Valley where the climbs were hard, the ground rocky and the sun too hot. Death Valley was as grey and desolate as a graveyard. And there was no fishing. And to a rising teen boy the whole trip was becoming a mis-adventure, cramped up with his parents and young sister.

As we headed south we managed a change in attitude by slipping into smaller highways, giving him the driving seat and handing him the wheel along large sections of open road while we kept a nervous eye out for the highway patrol. A few days later we made it to the Grand Canyon National Park campgrounds and hooked into a spot. Hamburgers and corn with probably some serious ice cream brought us to an ‘Are we having fun now?’ evening before we tucked into sleeping bags for the brief night. It was still dark as Walter turned on the ignition, jolting us awake, and drove the camper to the parking lot at the rim of the Grand Canyon. There were more than a dozen empty cars and vans parked along side us as small clusters of people, wrapped up in puffer jackets and hats, stood at the canyon’s rim with cameras and binoculars on hand easily sharing with those who were without. We were all gathered here, in the darkness, to see the sun rise over the canyon rim. There was a quiet stillness before the dark sky lightened, pouring purple from the sky that steadily flowed into orange as the sun rose to display the canyons’ rocks and rivers palette, cream through deep brown, sweeping across the canyon.

How long does a sunrise last – in our memories? Back in the camper van I banged open a tube of Pillsbury ‘just heat and serve’ cinnamon rolls and soon the smell of fresh baking  – in its fashion – wafted over the parking lot. Our little camper was passed with serious envy as, now that dawn had turned to day with the heat that followed, families drove off to their next adventure while we lingered over breakfast in that parking lot before we too packed up and went on. What did our children take from that adventure? It was rarely spoken of as a memorable time but something must have held, as Walter The Younger continues to reach towards the mountains and wilderness and this summer, Beatrice and her family traveled to Valencia in Spain, where, with temperatures rising beyond 100 degrees, they stood with strangers to watch the total eclipse of the sun.

On August 12th we too climbed a little way’s up Primrose Hill in London to watch the skies dim – as if a god was troubled. There were thousands of people on that hillside, and there were thousands beyond thousands in the Western European hemisphere also looking to the sky and, for this moment, unaided by our interference, stilled by the universe turning. The park ground was rock-hard and while I tried this way and that to get comfortable, Walter walked around and around, absorbing the crowds, following the sun as it slid around the hill and the moon glided forward on its path. A quiet roar went up at 12 minutes past 7 p.m. when, in other parts of the world, the moon completely overtook the sun. Before we lit up the sky with electric lights beaming from one continent to another – the eclipse would only be viewed in totality where that occurred – and wondered at by astronomers who followed the skies. As we made out way back home, most people lingered on the hill until dusk merged with moonlight for the night. 

Nightly the news shows us the wars raged far away around the world and I fear for friends that are engaged, close in their fields of endeavor, and whom we love. The firestorms of war churn with this summer’s fires that have galloped through Europe alongside the furnaces in America and Canada. The summer has been long and hard. We retreat to the cottage, subdued by the evening dance between the sun and the moon, wondering at the worth of our work. But today, through another familial gift, we can brew a cup of Canadian tea signaling to the world that while making sure ‘Our Elbows Are Up’ we continue to bow over the page and write.

This has been A Letter From. A Broad Written and read for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side and as always supported by Beatrice from MurchStudio

*In actuality my daughter tells me she very fondly remembers this rare family vacation and that it was spring break in 1986.