When the Titanic sank in 1912, the most expensive cargo on deck is said to have been a massive shipment of ostrich plumes insured for a couple million in today’s dollars. In present day Houston, you can find an equally treasured—but far less waterlogged—collection of plumage stashed away in large plastic bins in the bedroom of local couple Ben and Bill Jones-Walters, who through the course of their 46-year relationship have acquired more than 5,000 plumes of various colors. Unlike their shipwrecked brethren resting at the bottom of the Atlantic, which were likely destined to be worn daily on the hats of upper-class women, these fancy feathers are intended to only see the light of day once a year around Mardi Gras season. The regal plumage is used to adorn the elaborate costumes of the Krewe of Olympus, Houston’s only queer Mardi Gras krewe, at their annual ball.

For over 50 years, the krewe, originally founded in New Orleans in 1970, has been throwing whimsical balls once a year in the leadup to Mardi Gras. This year’s iteration of the spectacle took place on January 27 in the ballroom of the Wyndham Houston near NRG Park, which was packed that Saturday evening with enough fantastical plumage to make Fantasia look like a grade-school theatrical production. Part old-school gay pageant and part Las Vegas–style show, these balls have been an integral part of the social calendar for many queer Houstonians since the krewe relocated to the city in the early 1990s. Ben and Bill Jones-Walters, who have both been members since the 1970s (Ben joined in 1974 and Bill in 1978), are the only remaining members from the group’s early days, and they take their roles as krewe historians just as seriously as their jobs as part-time costumers.

Although they aren’t common in Houston, Mardi Gras balls have been a staple in New Orleans since the mid-1800s. Known for their lavishness, the balls were originally reserved for members of the upper crust of New Orleans society, since wealthy families at the time were the only ones who could afford to put on such opulent spectacles. It goes without saying that in these early days, these balls were entirely heterosexual affairs. That started to change in 1958 when New Orleans’s first gay krewe, the Krewe of Yuga, held its inaugural ball in a private home. Unfortunately, the krewe was forced to shut down a few years later after the police decided to crash the party. “The police were not appreciative at all,” Ben says. “They raided their balls and arrested people. That was way back in the dark years of everything gay.”

By the 1970s, the climate in New Orleans had shifted enough for over half a dozen gay krewes to spring into existence. Unlike the balls put on by their straight counterparts, the ones hosted by these upstart queer krewes weren’t exactly known for being opulent affairs. According to Bill, they were used mainly as ways to parody the straight krewes, with members parading around in makeshift costumes crafted from crepe paper and other less luxurious materials. It’s a campy tradition Olympus continues to this day—albeit with a bit more refinement than these early groups. “Olympus was formed because they wanted to show that they could put on something just as elaborate—if not more so—than the straight krewes,” Bill says.

Formed in 1970, the Krewe of Olympus hosted its first ball a year later; Ben characterizes it as a truly grand affair. “Our first ball, Camelot, was done with rhinestones and feathers, which had not yet been seen in the gay balls,” he says.

Early on, these balls were secretive, private events, and the only way you could attend one is if you were invited by a member of the krewe. Bill says that some attendees were so nervous about participating in the first one that the video of the evening had to be shot during a dress rehearsal due to privacy concerns. “They couldn’t do videos during the ball because people were afraid they would be seen on these videos and then lose their jobs for having attended a gay Mardi Gras ball,” he says.

By the late ’70s and early ’80s, however, people in New Orleans were becoming more accepting. Tickets to the invite-only balls hosted by Olympus, which had by that point seen its membership swell to around 60 people, became hot commodities. “During the ’70s and ’80s, the acceptance was very good. It made a big difference. We got to the point where it became a thing for straight society women to manage to get invitations to the gay balls,” Ben says.

“And then, of course, HIV hit, and things started going the wrong way,” Bill says.

“We were losing our movers and shakers to AIDS; they were dropping dead. We had dwindled to the point where there was no way to continue forward,” Ben says, noting that during this time of intense loss, the economy of New Orleans had also started to tank.

The couple had already moved to Houston by that point, and decided to relocate the krewe here as well. In 1991, the krewe held its 21st and last ball in New Orleans with the theme “Olympus Goes West.” It ended with a graphic of them crossing the border into Texas. “We declared that Olympus had come of age, and we were moving on,” Bill says.

By the early ’90s, Mardi Gras was experiencing a bit of a resurgence in Galveston, which Ben and Bill credit with making it easier for them to reestablish the Krewe of Olympus in Houston. “When the gay community here saw a Mardi Gras krewe had come to town, they were excited to have another festivity to be involved with,” Bill says.

The Krewe of Olympus held its first ball in Houston in 1992, and it’s been dazzling stages here every year since.

You’re probably wondering what exactly happens at a Mardi Gras ball. Although things have shifted a bit through the years, the mechanics are pretty simple. The Krewe of Olympus elects a ball captain every year, and once their term starts, Ben and Bill say they’re basically a dictator. The captain is responsible for selecting the theme every year as well as who will be chosen as king and queen. They also provide costume ideas and give members suggestions on how they should present themselves at the ball.

Each ball starts with an acknowledgement of the returning king and queen, who are given prime seating near the front. Then, the captain kicks things off with the pageant portion of the evening, when the krewe’s members come out one at a time for two-to-three-minute interludes set to music to show off their costumes. These presentations are steeped in camp—think costumes with themes of “homo economics” and “Barbie Q”—and each ensemble is designed to tie in some way with the ball’s theme.

The theme this year was School Daze. Bill chose to present himself as a marching band, complete with a giant gold music lyre on his back—decorated, of course, with many pink ostrich feathers. He completed a look with a drum major baton, which got some good use during his performance. “I was actually able to twirl it a couple of times and that seemed to catch people off guard,” he laughs.

Ben’s costume, meanwhile, was an homage to English literature. He technically appeared as Hamlet, but wearing a backpiece made to look like a book and sporting a mask in the likeness of William Shakespeare. Halfway through his performance, a costume change resulted in one of the campiest moments of the evening: “Since I was doing Hamlet, I thought that was boring, so halfway through my number my costume changed, and I threw away the William Shakespeare face on my headpiece and changed it to a pig and a bunch of hams came out dancing around me,” he says, noting that each of the members in his chorus were outfitted with pink pig snouts, ears, and curly tails.

At the conclusion of the presentations, the new king and queen are crowned, and after some additional rituals, they go into what they call “open court,” when everyone is given the chance to greet them. They ended things this year at the hotel bar for an after party complete with alcohol and snacks.

Although Ben and Bill say membership is open to anyone who appreciates what they are about, the krewe, perhaps due in part to the invite-only nature of its balls, has struggled attracting new members for the past several years. “We’re trying to hold onto that as a tradition,” says Ben of the gatherings being invite-only. “But these days things are changing so much, so who knows what may have to eventually be done.”

Many of Olympus’s members are now in their older years, and Ben and Bill say recruiting young people to help swell their ranks has been a bit of a struggle. While Mardi Gras is an integral part of life for people who live in New Orleans, and the queer krewes there are teaming with young people, that’s not necessarily the case for Houston, where the Mardi Gras tradition isn’t as strong. Ben and Bill would love for more young people to join the krewe, not just to keep the legacy going, but also for some more mundane reasons—like their back health.

“We like to joke about the fact that we can’t lift the costumes anymore,” Ben laughs. “Of course, we do lift them anyway, but we would very much like to get a whole bunch of younger members to carry on the legacy.”