1980: A Year of Personal and Historical Upheaval

I am in the blue shorts, my sister and Mama Judy

In 1980, two life-changing events shaped my young world. At just five years old, I was living in Tenino, Washington, in the care of a woman I lovingly called "Mama Judy." She had been my constant since I was two, caring for me and my older sister when my biological mother faced challenges raising us alone. Judy was my world, my anchor, and the person I thought of as my mother.

That year, everything changed. My biological mother arrived to take me and my sister away. While my sister knew her, I did not, and the separation from Judy was a heartbreak I couldn’t understand. I kept asking when I could go home, clinging to the hope that I’d see Judy again. My mother’s frustration turned to anger, and I was told that I would not be returning to Judy’s care. That moment left a wound so deep that it colored my relationship with my mother for years to come.

In May of that year, my family and I were staying in a cabin in the Rainier National Forest. My mother’s boyfriend at the time had rented the cabin, though I don’t recall much about him. Early one morning, the world around us changed forever. Mount St. Helens, the volcano that had been rumbling with warning signs, erupted with a force that would go down in history.

The eruption on May 18, 1980, was catastrophic, sending ash and debris tens of thousands of feet into the air. We were trapped in the cabin until my mother’s boyfriend came to rescue us and drive us north. The sky had an eerie, apocalyptic hue, and ash fell like snow. My mother tied handkerchiefs around our faces to shield us from inhaling the ash, a precaution many people in the region took.

The aftermath of the eruption was surreal. Snowplows cleared streets blanketed with ash, and life in Washington State ground to a halt as the community grappled with the disaster’s impact. Amid the chaos, one story stood out to me: the tale of Harry R. Truman.

Truman, an 83-year-old lodge owner, became a folk hero for his refusal to leave his home at Spirit Lake, near the base of Mount St. Helens. He had lived there for decades, and despite warnings from geologists and authorities, he insisted on staying, declaring, “If the mountain goes, I’m going with it.” My family admired his courage, even writing him a letter to express our respect. When I heard that he had perished in the eruption, I felt a strange and poignant connection to him—a man who, like me, clung fiercely to a sense of home.

Looking back, 1980 was a year of upheaval and resilience. For me, it was the end of one chapter and the beginning of another, marked by personal loss and a shared experience of a historic natural disaster.