Echoes and Magnolias

There’s a funny sort of echo in the room. It seems better on a clear night, when the dome is open, and the mighty 1883 Clark telescope peers across the cosmos.

But when it’s closed, the echoes gather, almost alive.

It rained on and off Wednesday evening. I felt slightly profane for cuing up powerpoint slides in such a special room.

If Science had churches, this would be one. The wooden floor, dark from stain and the ages, creaked pleasantly. This is where they worked since the turn of the last century, measuring the galaxy with glass plates and tireless precision, when the term computer meant women who calculated the numbers.

(That’s a story in itself. I wrote about it in Issue 13 of The Rivanna Review. More on that later.)

(If you’re near Charlottesville, pick up a copy of Issue 15 of The Rivanna Review. Yours truly has an essay in there. The whole magazine is a delight.)

And there I was with Powerpoint in this temple of the Old School. Bother. Whatever.

We gathered, right across from the telescope, and I begin to speak about distances, measurements, and things astronomers think about.

The echoes gathered again, mocking, as if to say Oh, yes, a light year is 5.88 trillion miles. Sure we understand that.

It’s strange how much I can hide behind numbers. But something always jolts me out of it.

Towards the end, Rich sauntered in. He’s mastered this art. (I didn’t know he had been huffing and puffing minutes before.)

“Ah, here’s Rich!” I said to my fellow astronomy club members. “He’s one of the last parallax observers who used this scope for science. Tell us a bit, Rich.”

So he did, and then we wrapped up, and then the main meeting started inside.

The quiet returned to the dome room, with only a lingering echo to jeer my pretend grasp of cosmic distances.

“Hey, got something for you” Rich said. “Your last blog started and ended with a phrase. So, I went outside, and nearly got beat. Meant to be at your talk, but the roots of the big tree wouldn’t let the little one go. Had to change my shirt and everything. You said you need to plant a magnolia.”

Son of a gun…He dug up a magnolia sapling and brought it in his Tesla. What a fella.

Rich and the magnolia, high atop Mt. Jefferson, Charlottesville, VA, with creative lighting.

With a careful eye and some triangulation this morning, calculating the neighbor’s porchlight and the planned backyard observatory, the lil’ magnolia is in the ground and happy as can be. He’ll grow up to be a gem–and a calming influence on the night skies.

I moved here and said I’d “put down roots.” This is perfect.

“You’ll love the smell of the flowers” Rich told me. “I remember one sandwich from a long time ago. One sandwich. Made it myself. Put peach preserves on white bread, and crept out to the barn to eat it. Anytime I smell a magnolia, it brings me right back.”

I dig it.

Maybe someday we’ll all be able to gather at the little observatory. I’ll build it soon. Instead of echoes, we’ll hear the rustle of magnolia leaves down the hill, blocking the porchlight and scenting the air with new memories.

Thanks, Rich.

–Josh