It was sometime after 6 on a Friday morning. I lay on the couch, listening to the news and hoping to doze for just a few more minutes before breakfast. It would, I promised myself, be a stellar Friday with very little work to do and sunshine and 50 degrees. Weatherman Don Harman came on. A warm day today, but the cold air is moving in later. Mmmphf. And then, something about his voice caught my attention. There’s talk…there’s talk of a “catastrophic solar event” in the next three years. Could it happen? We’ll tell you more when we come back.
What? What?! I looked over at my daughter, who was, mercifully, asleep. A “catastrophic solar event?” Three years? As the commercials rolled, I began to imagine just what he could mean. I’m no astronomer, but I’ve heard of quasars and novas. One day, you’re outside, enjoying a picnic on the beach. You look up at the sky and smile. Then there’s this big pulse of energy and—all gone. What would that be like, I wondered. Would we get to see some of the show, for even just a second, before our eyes melted? And what would it sound like? I bet it would make a big snap and an electric hum. That would be awesome!
Or…maybe what he’s talking about is one of those solar flares—those big looping tongues of flame we’ve seen on science shows. I pictured the planets, the earth and the sun spinning around each other in a stately minuet. They turn, they bow, and then ever so slowly, the sun stretches out an arm to give the earth a delicate, flirtatious flick. And the earth’s response is to sizzle like fatty meat that’s been left on an open grill.
By now I was wide awake and sitting up. The prospect of mass annihilation will do that to you. The commercials rolled on endlessly, and I thought and thought. Would it be better to junk everything and spend my last years traveling the globe, or should I try and stay close to family? Is three years enough time to make it up to people for the horrible, horrible mistakes I’ve made.
And when the time comes, do I really want to be here to be consumed by hot gas or should we stock up on some cyanide? The gas seems like it would hurt, but then what happens if I took the cyanide and the prediction turned out to be wrong? This guy has been known to miss a forecast before. Maybe the best way to meet my end would be to dig down into the ground, mollusk style, to—wait. Did that commercial just say Nebraska Furniture Mart is giving away vacuum cleaners?
So many questions. Will this, for instance, make credit easier or harder to get? For one thing, impending solar doom would have a huge impact on my New Year’s resolution to become an optimist. Is it possible to think positively about the meadows, the trees and everyone you know in flames? Would we all have to live out our last days in frantic hedonism, searching for that last, best pleasure? On the other hand, maybe there’s something to be said for supernovas. Maybe we’ll finally stop hearing about the grit of the “greatest generation.” After all, how many generations can tell their kids they stood firm and stared apocalypse in the eye? Oh…yeah. Never mind.
At last, the commercials ended. Harman appeared onscreen somber, somewhat guilty-faced, as if he hated to be the bearer of the worst possible news. Here it comes, I thought. He then proceeded to give…the weather. Jet streams. Relative strengths of arctic air masses. Storms over the Pacific northwest.
C’mon man. Out with it!
Isobars. Doppler radar. Dewpoints and long-range forecasts. Then, at last, news of the “catastrophic solar event.” Harman put up a web site that I could barely see. It seems the solar storm could “take out” the US for possibly months.
Huh? I rushed to the computer to key in “solar event” and “three years.” And there it is. Solar maximum. Solar minimum. Sunspots. He’s talking about sunspots. Predicted to be severe, to be sure, but they would not fry us. Our communications and—presumably—our television signal may be interrupted. We would live, though.
I rewound the newscast just as my husband came into the room. “Look what this guy dropped on us and just before going to commercials,” I said, pressing the “play” button.
Just at that moment, my daughter awakens. “What does it mean, a ‘catastrophic solar event?’” Time for breakfast.
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