Memory of the Month: When the World Went Black

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I love to travel. Ralph did, too, once I talked him into a trip. But in 1991 I didn't have to convince him. The minute he saw the article about the Museum of Natural Science's trip to Oaxaca, Mexico to see the upcoming solar eclipse, he was ready to sign up.

We'd been on a trip with the Museum's astronomy expert before--to Chile to see Haley's Comet--and it was great fun, watching the starry sky from the Chilean desert. Now we'd see another once-in-a-lifetime sight, a total eclipse of the sun.

Oaxaca was crowded with tourists eager for their adventure. We visited the observatory there and heard a lecture on the eclipse and the safe way to view it. Never look directly at the sun, even if it's obscured by the moon, or you're likely to be blinded, so we had special dark glasses for the viewing.

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We traveled to the impressive ruins at Monte Alban, toured the wide plaza and some of the stone buildings, then had a picnic lunch. As the time for the eclipse neared, throngs of people arrived. Nearby was a group with painted faces, drumming as they waited for the sun to disappear. My heart pounded. How had it felt, centuries ago to the Mayans and Aztecs, when suddenly the world went dark?

Gradually the light dimmed and we could see the moon moving across the sun, slowly covering it. An eerie, gray-greenish light surrounded us. We could see Jupiter, Mercury and Venus in line with the moon. A shadow passed over the valley, and the air grew cold. We stood in the dark, the drums pounding in the background, the drummers chanting in time. A minute passed, then two, then three...and the light returned.

It's a memory I'll always cherish and a special day shared with Ralph.

The Saga of Lois Continues: Part 2

Last week I posted a piece about Lois, the famous corpse flower at the Houston Museum of Natural Science. The city (in fact, the whole country) waited for Lois to bloom. Some began calling her Slowis; others predicted she'd never bloom, she was just a tease. Meanwhile, Zac, the hunky horticulturist who is in charge of her, has achieved rock star status in Houston.

Lois's counterpart (perhaps cousin) Perry is blooming in Minneapolis. He's been faster to spread his petals, but he hasn't gotten the publicity Lois has. Her website receives hundreds of tweets daily from Lois aficianodos.

Finally, on Thursday her purple petals began to open. My friend and I and her daughter decided we had to visit and thought going after 10 p.m. would be a good choice. We got there at 11:00, and the museum was so crowded, our tickets were for a 1:30 a.m. entrance. We went home, got snacks and books and returned to wait in line. While we were waiting, the guy in the picture above arrived in a homemade Lois costume.

The museum had placed a Stinkometer in Lois's vicinity. I don't know if you can see in the picture that when we arrived, it had a reading of 5 out of a possible 10. Yes, Lois emits an odor but half way up the chart it was tolerable. As we walked out at 2:00 a.m., we asked each other if we were crazy. Nah, it was an adventure, a once-in-a-lifetime chance to smell a flower with the odor of rotting meat.

The Chronicle, our daily paper, ran a story Friday about a couple who months ago reserved the Butterfly Center at the Museum for their wedding Saturday night. Little did they know they'd be sharing center stage with Lois, who stands at the entrance to the Butterfly Center. Since it was too late to change their plans, they decided to give all the guests clothespins to put over their noses.