It was the night of the steam eruption that I first made the acquaintance of Harry Truman: Truman the crotchety old man. Truman the loon. Truman the eccentric who did nothing but raise a gun at people who tried to walk on his property. Truman the man who should probably be dead already.

Almost every adult living in Oregon and Washington seemed to have a tale or an opinion about this guy with the same name as the former president. He lived on Spirit Lake, an idyllic summer destination at the base of the mountain. Truman ran the Mt.St.Helens Lodge, and after the earthquakes and minor eruptions began, the media trained their cameras on him. Not only was he 83 and a local fixture, he was also ornery. He made good TV.

He made me angry. “Why won’t he leave?” I asked my mother one day after another minor eruption and the reported discovery of a growing bulge on the side of the mountain. Already, the snow had melted on the mountaintop and a small crater had appeared. It looked to me like a singed marshmallow that was starting to collapse. We all eyed the mountain when the weather was clear. Now, every time the clouds dispersed, its appearance had changed.

“I don’t know,” my mother replied. And I realized for the first time that she wasn’t simply trying to shush me as she went about doing laundry or feeding the dog. I watched her inhale smoke from her Virginia Slim as she stared at the news broadcast. Her lips were pulled into a tight line. “I really don’t know.”