Astronomy for Everyone

I stand, in late twilight, squinting above and waiting for darkness to fall on the field below. All the preparations have been made, and the 18-inch stands next to me, waiting, expectant. The eyepiece is already in the focuser. Now all I have to do is wait for the deep turquoise twilight to turn to black night.

Around me are scores of others, waiting for the same thing. Voices raised in jolly repartee fill the air, punctuated by hearty laughter. But as the sun dips below the horizon, the voices are quieter. When the first stars appear, the voices drop and here and there the light from a red flashlight can be seen, piercing through the oncoming dark.

I flex my arms and legs and stretch; it will be a long night. I search the sky above me for the two stars that mark the path to the first object I have planned. As soon as I see them, I grab the dowel on the bottom of the secondary cage and swing the 18 into position, sighting the object in my finder. I press my eye against the eyepiece and spot the wondrous nebula that is, even now, giving birth to new stars. I squint and stare at the object to see how many stars I can find within it.

As the nebula rises in the sky, so do I, cursing my petite stature. Up, up, up – until I stand, en pointe, at the eyepiece, straining to see. Finally I must concede defeat, and grab the ladder/chair I use for putting my eye level with the eyepiece.

The dark deepens. The voices around me have become low murmurs, and I hop down off my perch to sight another object. Now everyone is faceless; identification of any one of the people around me will be based on voice or shape familiarity.

While I peer into the scope, the inevitable “what are you looking at?” comes from somewhere below me and to my left. “Nothing”, I say truthfully. “I’m still looking for it.” I don’t recognize either the voice or the shape, so my answer comes out more easily, even automatically. There are times when I love nothing more than to share my views with others; but this isn’t one of those times.

As midnight approaches, I sit and take a small break. My husband walks by, keys and change jingling in his pockets. “I’m going to hit the sack,” he announces. “Okay,” I say, and stand back up and stretch again. He knows that it is fruitless to ask me when I will be ready for bed; somnolence is far from me. And the object I have waited months to see does not appear above the southern horizon for at least another two hours.

 Finally, the first stars in my deep southern object peek above the horizon; it won’t be long now.  I stare at them, hoping that I can raise them higher with my own eagerness.  This doesn’t happen, and I content myself with scanning the horizon yet again for the enemy.  If clouds move in and obscure my view, the southern deep sky will be lost to me.  Fortunately, there are no enemy troops in sight.

 Now the object is standing, just on the horizon, and I swing the 18 down.  This one will be a knee-biter; no chair or ladder is required.  I sight the object through the finder, and eagerly drop to my knees.  The ground is grass over sharp coral, and I congratulate myself for the forethought to wrap heavy socks around each knee.  I cannot, however, see the object in my eyepiece, so I consult the finder again.  I nudge the 18 down just a millimeter, put my eye back to the eyepiece – and gasp.  There it is.  It fills the field of view of the medium-high magnification eyepiece I am using – but it is all there.  I stare at it so intensely that it feels as though my eyeball will jump out of its socket.  Show me your secrets, I plead.  Just a hint will do.  As though it heard my silent plea, the object shines brighter and I gasp again.

 Now a blanket of adrenaline and sheer wonder covers me.  That one split second has given me the thing I treasure most – enlightenment.  One more tiny piece of the puzzle of the universe has been implanted in my brain, to be retrieved and lived over and over again.  As the object sinks below the horizon in farewell, I pat the 18’s secondary cage and again feel the gratitude and humility I have for the exquisite primary mirror she has.

 Like a dog sniffing the breeze, the 18 rises up a little of her own accord, as if to say “what’s next? Let’s go!”  I reluctantly turn back to reality, and sight my next object.  Now the voices are much fewer, and only occasionally does the red beam of an astronomer’s flashlight shine.  As I peer once more through the eyepiece, I shake my head in wonder at the many people who have already gone to bed.  How could they have missed this, I ask myself.  But I shake off the thought.  After all, what others do when observing is not my concern.

 As night finally begins to fade, and a faint pink glow is visible in the east, I carefully put the 18 to bed, and slide her long silver cover over her.  Silent now, she doesn’t protest.  I close my eyepiece case and look again to the east.  A beautiful sunrise is just beginning, so I make my way to the beach, find a suitable rock to sit on, and watch.  The glorious sunlight becomes brighter and suddenly I feel the signs of exhaustion; the stiff knees, the protesting feet, the sore back.  I am the only one still up, so I watch the sunrise in silence, hugging my stiff knees in front of me.  Then I reluctantly make my way back to our trailer for some much needed sleep.  After all, behind this sunrise is another sunset, and another opportunity to look heavenward at the wonders contained within.  I fall into bed, to sleep, and to dream, of what I will find after that sunset.

 Susan S. Carroll