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When I stop to think about it, I remember the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in 79 AD like it was yesterday. I was a slave, working in a vineyard in the farmland on the outskirts of the city under the shadow of the mountain. The soil was some of the most fertile anywhere in the world, thanks to the accumulation of volcanic soil there over the centuries and the weather was ideal for growing grapes. The city was wealthy, to the point of decadence. The architecture of the town and the scenery in countryside were idyllic. It was very much like Napa Valley today. When the eruption starting in the morning I stole a horse and road as fast as I could toward the villa that housed the owners of the land and winery. My mother and sister were there, working in the villa as servants. Although the horse was fast, we were overtaken by a blast from the volcano while on the way and were both suffocated by the noxious fumes and ash. I never made it back to the villa. The last think I remember was my grief — not over the loss of my own life, but at not being able to warn my loved ones of the danger. Do you remember where you were and what you were doing on August 24, 79 AD? You might, if you try.
