Eric Jolly: Guardian of the Science Museum’s treasure troves

By Curt Brown

Star Tribune

      Wearing white gloves and a look of reverence, Eric Jolly enters the basement vault of the Science Museum of Minnesota. Here, amid mummified hawks, dinosaur bones, American Indian flutes, tools from Pompeii and jars of snakes floating in preservatives, the museum's new president has found his sanctuary.

      He pulls open a steel drawer and delicately removes a golden eagle, collected near Anoka on Feb. 18, 1960.

      "By examining its wings, we are able to study the mercury level in the last fish this eagle ate before it died and learn about the environmental history of the time," Jolly said. "It's important to remember that these treasures collected the last 97 years are going to tell stories long after we're gone."

      When Jolly took over the downtown St. Paul museum in March, he became the institution's 15th president

      Jolly considers himself both a steward of the state's scientific treasure chest and an anchorman, of sorts, whose job it is to make the stories relevant to the 1.2 million visitors who walk through the doors every year.

      "We're not only here to demonstrate and generate others' knowledge, but to create an informed public that takes on the issues of the day," said Jolly, 47. "Science policy matters to Minnesotans and to our future, and the purpose of this place is to excite, to engage and to inspire the next generation of scientists."

      The first hint of Jolly's quest for relevance among 1.7 million artifacts came with a May forum that examined science, race and Supreme Court decisions. Not that such so-called salons are anything new. That's how the museum began in 1907, when it was known as the St. Paul Institute of Science & Letters. In coming months, Jolly plans to hold forums on everything from stem-cell research to what genetically modified food means to Minnesotans.

      "We have to have relevancy to everyday life," Jolly said. "That's what we're about."

Lasers and chimps

      Jolly, who is paid $235,000 a year to run the museum, grew up in Hope Valley, R.I. His mother, Ruth, worked in a factory that produced linen towel prints. His father, Clarence, served on torpedo patrol in World War II and was a boxer and union organizer who shoveled sand in a shipyard and worked in a foundry.

      Jolly learned to speak the Cherokee language from his father, who had learned it from his father.

      "I was a child who sat quietly reading books early on," Jolly said.

      Among his first books were volumes of a used 1912 encyclopedia set. The science and electricity stuff especially intrigued him. By high school, Jolly had won an international science and engineering fair with his version of a nitrogen capacitive discharge laser. The contraption, which he'll gladly diagram for anyone who asks, used coils, tubes and sparks to produce light.

      Jolly went on to study physics and engineering, and earned his doctorate in psychology at the University of Oklahoma. To pay for graduate school, he communicated in sign language with chimpanzees and orangutans in a primate research project at the Oklahoma City zoo. He preferred the more social chimps, who liked being tickled.

      "Orangs will start signing with their hands and then switch to their feet, so you never knew where to look," he said. "And they only care about food."

      One day, when studying vocabulary retention of an older orang, he asked in sign language what the ape was holding. The orang showed him a cucumber. Jolly asked for some.

      "He reached into his mouth, took out a piece of chewed cucumber and put in my mouth," Jolly said.

      Jolly said he lacked the patience to be a professor. After attracting national attention for his Cherokee basket weaving, he considered a career in the arts. But he didn't want to have to sell baskets to earn a living.

      So his career veered into administration, including a stint as affirmative-action director at the University of Nebraska-Omaha. In that job, he passed out pink triangles to faculty members to display support for gay students. And when one old-time Oklahoman told Jolly that immigrants ought to learn the language of the land, Jolly responded in Cherokee: "I guess you haven't learned the language of the people who were here when you came."

      Never one to shy away from issues, Jolly spent the past eight years as senior scientist and vice president of the Boston-area Education Development Center. Within weeks of the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, Jolly's nonprofit group cranked out a 30-page curriculum for teenagers called "Beyond Blame: Reacting to a Terrorist Attack." The material, available on the Internet, examined misplaced blame and found its way to 500,000 students in 16 countries.

'Heavy responsibility'

      Back in the climate-controlled museum vault, Jolly stops to contemplate the remains of a crocodile that crawled around what is now Wyoming 1.2 million years ago. It will take two years to remove the bones from the cast and another three years to reconstruct it for display.

      "The patience and exacting nature of this work is incredible," he said. "Keeping our collection healthy is really keeping knowledge alive for the next generation, and that stewardship is a heavy responsibility."

      Among his first initiatives is pairing museum exhibit designers with researchers to find better ways to tell the stories tucked away in the vault, where 99 percent of the museum's collection resides.

      "Eric's knowledge base as a scientist is really outstanding, and his energy coupled with his passion are really evident," said Ron Lawrenz, who supervises the museum's research and collections. "But what I really like about Eric is that he's articulate. He can take his knowledge and passion and talk about it. He's a tremendous storyteller."

      On the other side of the wall of the quiet vault, as many as 2,800 students a day whirl through the museum, prompting the new president to chuckle.

      "If I ever feel overworked or tired, I walk into the sea of energy and feel transformed," he said, motioning toward the students. "The kids are excited about the hands-on exhibits, where they're touching science. That 'aha' moment they get from the floor experience or the educational films make this a high-quality science experience that I hope to help bring to the next level."

Curt Brown is at curt.brown@startribune.com