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On a hot Monday in August, 2017, my friends and I had a pool party. It was the very start of what was, for most of us, our thirteenth year together in our rural K-12 school district. As a group, we were cool enough to skip out on the field trip to Carbondale, and nerdy enough to be very excited about the astrological events that put our region at the center of the universe for the day.
We spent the late morning swimming in our friend’s grandmother’s pool and tanning and taking photos in our cardboard blackout glasses. The early afternoon continued the same way, plus a break every 30 seconds or so to watch the moon inch in front of the sun bit by bit. Our town, West Frankfort, was in the path of totality but a little north of its point of greatest duration. So we sacrificed a few seconds of darkness to stay close to home and avoid the traffic locals had been predicting for weeks.
We chose right. Unlike in Carbondale, where nearly 15,000 scientists and enthusiasts from far and wide gathered only to watch a low cloud block the eclipse from sight, the sky was blue and clear, and the sun’s halo-like corona was on full display. That view was magical. But in the days before this year’s total solar eclipse – which happened yesterday, April 8, 2024 – when anyone pointed out that the forecast predicted clouds, I told them not to worry. In the path of totality, the most affecting part of the 2017 eclipse wasn’t the view of the sky, but the sudden darkness, and the way the sounds of the woods changed: frogs croaking, birds silent. The only video I have from that day is of my friend Wesley running ahead of me in swim trunks and a big bucket hat. I remember the group’s sudden rush to get out of the secluded backyard and make sure the rest of the world – the nearby gravel road – was dark too.
Something like 145,000 people came down to southern Illinois for the eclipse that year. Carbondale, the city that saw the height of the action, is a small college town about half an hour southwest of where I grew up. School was canceled throughout the region to reduce traffic and free up first responders in preparation for its population swell. And, one of my former English teachers told me, they weren’t sure how many kids would show up even if school were in session.
Carbondale is one of the poorest towns in Illinois – it’s the largest city in a rural, economically depressed region, and 43% of its residents live below the poverty line. In light of that, its status as the “eclipse crossroads of America” has been a major boon. Southern Illinois University (SIU) events coordinator Sarah Vanvooren told me she’s been on an eclipse-planning steering committee since 2015, when town residents first began to imagine what their unique position in the solar system could mean.
Southern Illinois, for once, was uncannily lucky. We’ve been on successive paths of totality twice in just seven years, “another total solar eclipse won’t pass over Southern Illinois until February 25, 2343,” said Vanvooren. “That’s 319 years from now.”
The 2017 eclipse’s point of greatest duration was a few miles south of Carbondale, near the village of Makanda, Illinois. In both 2017 and 2024, NASA co-hosted SIU’s Eclipse Festival. This year, Vanvooren told me, more than 30,000 people were on campus, and about 13,500 people watched from the Saluki football Stadium (including Illinois Governor J.B. Pritzker). Despite the gloomy forecast, the weather was less fussy in 2024 than 2017, giving the stadium a perfect view of the sky above.
Outside the official events, people camped out on towels and lawn chairs all over southern Illinois. Eclipse festivities ran all weekend, and local activists took advantage of the unusual crowds to organize a pro-Palestine march. On the drive to my own viewing point at a local winery, I saw out-of-towners gathered on the sides of backroads where I’ve rarely seen another soul. A friend told me there were entire families set up in the Culver’s (and its parking lot) “like it was a fancy Italian restaurant.” There was a pervasive rumor that Seth Rogen was in town. Vanvooren told me she heard that one too, but couldn’t confirm it.
I asked Vanvooren if she thought the town would have a case of post-eclipse blues. “No,” she said, “not at all. It went well and we’re just really proud that we got to showcase SIU.” In the leadup to the eclipse, it was a question I’d been asking myself – how would people feel after all the excitement? But after four minutes of chilly darkness in the middle of a perfect Spring day, the visitors headed home, clogging Interstate 57 for hours, and leaving locals to bask in the restored sunshine.
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