The tale of the Total Eclipse of the Skirt
The path to a full moon is filled with danger and excitement.
Michael Aaron’s recent Facebook posts about his solar-eclipse cruise reminded me of my own eclipse adventure.
Ever since I was a little princess in Idaho’s potato fields, I had dreamed of witnessing a total solar eclipse. Around 2015, I learned that one would cross the western United States in August 2017. The next eclipse over Utah would not arrive until August 2045. As an aged queen already well past her sell-by date, I doubted I would still be around in ’45, so 2017 was my chance. To experience total immersion in darkness, I would need to travel to Idaho Falls. I began making plans.
Idaho news reports predicted apocalyptic crowds and local resources stretched thinner than a bargain-bin wig. I pictured Queertanic, my beloved land yacht capable of seating six with “room for a pony,” stranded on the roadside, out of gas, while I, wearing a torn, filthy sundress and the dignity of a dethroned pageant queen, hitchhiked through a scene from “The Walking Dead.” So, I packed extra gasoline, a mountain of ham sandwiches, and enough Diet Mountain Dew to keep a drag troupe alive for two weeks of a zombie apocalypse. Not to mention many folding chairs, beach blankets, and other comforts, just in case we ended up in someone’s potato field.
On the appointed morning, long, long before dawn, Mr. Pap Smear and I got the grandkids out of bed and almost had to carry them to the car because it was so early.
Expecting gridlock, I allowed two extra hours of driving time for the journey to Idaho Falls. I slipped into my flashiest yellow caftan, crowned myself with a beehive wig, pulled on opera-length driving gloves, and added sunglasses flashy and gaudy enough to eclipse the eclipse. Then we hit the road to a celestial playlist: Andy Williams’s Moon River, Frank Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon, and Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart. Subtle? True to form, the grandkids complained about the music choices.
To my shock, Interstate 15 was busy but flowing at full freeway speed, and we reached the edge of Idaho Falls three hours early. In full apocalypse-hoarder couture, I topped off Queertanic’s tank before the gas station could run dry. (It never did.) Then I searched for a place to moor our beloved land yacht, which requires roughly ten acres and a generous turning radius for her maneuvers. I chose the nearest park, expecting a parking-lot death match, but found only one other car. We docked with ease and claimed the picnic pavilion beside the restroom, the park’s undisputed VIP lounge.
We chatted and read books as the park slowly filled. Determined to add a touch of glamour, I spread a tablecloth and set out the finest paper plates, plastic utensils, and styrofoam cups Walmart had to offer. Then I piled a whole mountain of ham sandwiches on a silver serving tray and placed it in the center of the table with a two-liter bottle of Diet Mountain Dew chilling in an ice-filled champagne bucket off to the side. For entertainment, our seven-year-old grandchild staged a scientific drag spectacular with chocolate and vanilla Oreos, showing how the moon would cross in front of the sun. It was educational, delicious, and suspiciously under-rehearsed. Then I got hungry and swallowed both the sun and moon cookies in one bite.
After all that eating and drinking, I needed the little queen’s room for a brief audience on the porcelain throne. Fortunately, it was close to our pavilion. After bestowing a rather voluminous “royal contribution,” I emerged from the restroom and processed back to camp with all the dignity a drag queen in daylight can summon. Halfway there, children began pointing and giggling. One especially hunky daddy scooped up his child and hurried away. Naturally, I assumed they were overwhelmed by my sparkling jewels. Then Mr. Pap Smear rushed over with the horrifying truth: the back of my skirt was tucked into my underwear, and I was giving the entire park an unscheduled viewing of my own full moon.
Clinging to one last sequin of dignity, I lowered my skirt, smoothed the wrinkles, and glided back to the pavilion as if the wardrobe malfunction had been deliberate. Then I hid behind a wall for half an hour, waiting for the eclipse to provide face-saving darkness, all the while hoping against hope that neighboring parents did not call the police to report me flashing innocent children.
At last, the sun vanished, the streetlights flickered on, and the park fell into magical darkness — nature’s most dramatic lighting cue. As the sun returned, I pointed a golden wand skyward and cried, “Lumos!” The timing dazzled the grandkids and restored my reputation as a sorceress of stage and sky. Then, we quickly packed Queertanic and headed home, only to find I-15 transformed into the gridlocked parking lot everyone had predicted. The one-hour drive to Pocatello took three, but the spectacle — and the scandal — made the once-in-a-lifetime trip entirely worthwhile.
As always, these events leave us with several eternal questions:
- When the grandkids complained about old people’s music, should I have made them ride in the trunk?
- How many ham sandwiches must a queen pack before emergency preparedness becomes catering?
- Was the picnic pavilion truly the VIP lounge, or merely the only venue close enough for a queen in crisis?
- Should “Lumos!” count as sorcery if the sun was already doing all the work?
- If one accidentally shows the park a full moon during a solar eclipse, does that make it a double feature?
- Could I have distracted the neighboring families from my shame by announcing that there was an extremely rare Pokémon Go character reportedly on the far side of this park?
These and other important questions will be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear
