Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Mt. St. Helens
I remember the dusting of ash that made it all the way to where we lived in Portland. That was that spring that my ash allergy became apparent. I remember my mom and her friend buying masks for me and the friend's son, Randy, because both of us were sneezing so badly from it.
Having run out of the normal white ones, the store only had oddly shaped green ones left in stock. Never one to make trouble, Randy good naturedly accepted his bemasked fate, whereas I refused to wear mine on the grounds that it made me look like a frog. I suppose that alive and amphibious is better than incessant sneezing (let alone dead and coated in lava), but even at 11, I had a keen fashion aesthetic that did not include emulating Grandmother Toad. It is a rule of couture that continues to served me well.