Fingernail shadows

A tsunami of sickles on a street near us

The first partial solar eclipse that I remember occurred on a warm summer afternoon years ago.  Our neighbours in our Edmonton neighbourhood had a small rectangle of smoked glass, and about half a dozen children took turns peering at the strange image of a black circle biting into a bright orange one.  (Not a recommended medium today!)

It was the only indication that anything was different about the afternoon.  The sun continued to shine brightly -- except that I noticed the shadows made the sidewalk appear to be paved with cloudy cobblestones.

It wasn't until I was a parent myself, on a bitterly cold and cloudless Christmas Day, my first in Hades, that I realized what I had been seeing hadn't been a childish fancy.  The midday light reflected through the latticework of our porch on to the pitiless smooth snow, a strange cluster of half-discs. 

Not long before we finally escaped from Hades, another partial eclipse swung by us on a summer's afternoon.  I tried a colander, to no avail,  but wandered to the front of our house, where tiny crescents were scattered amid the shadows of the leaves on our front walk.

So, on Saturday,  I set the timer on my phone, and wandered home from the coffee shop, scanning the ground for sickles. About two minutes before the eclipse was scheduled, I spotted what I was seeking in the centre of a quiet street, and frantically gestured to an older lady strolling up the sidewalk.  She told me, in an accent faintly tinged with Eastern Europe, that a neighbour from her building had already shown her the view through a "screen" - I didn't dare ask - and that it was "once in a lifetime" for her; she'd never seen an eclipse.

Next, a family with two young boys meandered by, but the kids were too young to be impressed, and their parents, though polite, were reserved, when I pointed out the odd shadows on the grass. 

Undaunted, I headed back home, following a trail of sun-bows, and, ahead of me, a young woman was holding up her camera to the sun.  A friend had just alerted her to the event via text.  I pointed to the shadows behind her, and she exclaimed in astonishment, and starting snapping pictures.

Stopping at the path leading to the entrance of our building, I used my phone as well - to phone the Resident Fan Boy, telling him only to "come out --- now".

By this time, a matter of less than ten minutes, the fingernails were rapidly thickening into something less delicate, more ordinary.