This week and next, I'm sharing a short essay by one of my astronomy friends, Susan Carroll. Susan has been a dedicated observer for more years than most. Her 18-inch Starmaster Dobsonian-mounted reflector is a familiar sight at star parties across Florida and the Southeast (and the Midwest, when she lived there).
If you're a telescopic observer like me, I'm sure you will relive the moments Susan describes. If you haven't yet taken the plunge and turned a telescope toward the sky, this is what awaits you.
NIGHTFALL
by Susan S. Carroll, Bradenton, Florida
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 have dropped, 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 scope. 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 the fact that I am vertically challenged. 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.
As the dark deepens, the voices around me have become 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.
As 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; 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.
—Continued next week.