We meet Mr. Conspiracy (which, um, is not his real name) in the motel lobby. I speak with him only briefly, while my wife soldiers onward for well over an hour. Mr. C. is likely my age but looks a lot older, with a ring of white puffy hair circling a chrome dome and a pasty face and lively eyes. He speaks quickly and enthusiastically with many hand gestures. We learn that he hails from New Jersey by way of northern Vermont, and now is en route, for unstated reasons, to somewhere in Ohio. He is here with us in Rochester, New York, by happenstance and not for the upcoming solar eclipse, which he intends to avoid. He seems vaguely threatened by the eclipse for reasons that he does not explain.
His conspiracies only begin with the assassination of President Kennedy back in ’63. According to my wife’s account, his world view encompasses all the usual suspects, including government officials past and present, NASA scientists and astronauts, journalists and assorted media potentates, and intriguingly, whoever is running college and professional sports. Mr. C. believes that the scores are pre-determined and that he has cracked the code that proclaims them. Thus, he predicts—or guarantees, really—that Purdue University will win the evening’s basketball game and be crowned national champion.
It must be exciting to believe in lots of conspiracies. You’re the star of a blockbuster movie, with an ever heightening plot that never progresses to the third act. Beats the alternative, which is to go along with the status quo. Sheeplike, to a certain mindset, as well as confining and mundane.
I am not interested in conspiracies. I have trekked the 6-hour journey to Rochester with my wife, younger son, and dog to share the eclipse with our older son, now a freshman at a university here, fortuitously within the band of totality. But the eclipse does not arrive until late afternoon, so there’s time for a local tourist attraction.
My choice is the Jello museum.
No one else in my family—and possibly, within my acquaintance or the immediate world—is interested in accompanying me to the Jello museum. But I want to go anyway, and so I do. I manage to drag along the 6-year-old with the bribe of a souvenir plus cookies. He doesn’t even know what Jello is.
The museum is housed in an old house in the town of LeRoy, New York, located just south of Rochester and near our motel. From the exhibits I learn that the four original flavors are strawberry, raspberry, orange, and lemon. I gawk at early mascots that look like pixies or Kewpie dolls. I take in a gallery of Jello molds, recipes for Jello shots, toys cobranded with cartoon characters, and for some reason, a stuffed giraffe.
My son’s single comment: “Can we go now?”
Sigh.
That afternoon, we meet up with son-the-elder on campus. The student body is partying on an athletic field, and we join them, albeit with folding chairs. Somebody is piping in songs like “Soak Up the Sun,” by Sheryl Crow, and “Man on the Moon,” by REM. The sky is overcast, we cannot even find the Sun. But gradually the sky darkens, and remains dark for a few minutes. Then it brightens again. End of eclipse. Everyone cheers.
Let us praise eclipses as a celebration of science. The experts provide a thorough explanation along with extraordinarily precise predictions of path, timing, and duration, not only for the 2024 performance but for stagings over the rest of the century. In fact, the eclipse schedule is merely a subset of the continuous tracking of the Earth-Moon-Sun system, which typically defines an ever-changing triangle and is only rarely colinear. We fans park ourselves at one of the many anointed locations in space-time, and we witness the Moon and Sun dance their pas-de-deux exactly as advertised. At least, when the weather cooperates.
Not to rub it in, but I expect that eclipse forecasts are not discussed by the people who run “Answers in Genesis.”
The next morning, I learn that the basketball tournament was won by the University of Connecticut.
My wife again runs into Mr. Conspiracy, who is extraordinarily dejected, but not about basketball. His car needs repairs and he has no money for a rental, or to continue staying in the motel. Could we give him some cash? Could we put a rental car on our credit card? My wife’s response is a strict no. Mr. C. starts crying.
True story.
It is now Wednesday evening. We are all back home, except for the college student who remains in college. Younger son returned to classes at the local elementary school, and this afternoon he attended his piano lesson. I completed a full day of work, and another full day is promised for tomorrow and the day after. This afternoon, the Twins beat the Dodgers 3 to 2. Earth continues to rotate on its axis, the Moon continues to revolve around Earth, both Earth and Moon continue to revolve around the Sun. Nothing more to say, at least for now.
Peace to you all.
