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A Trip to the J.M. McDonald Planetaruim

Two weeks ago, I had the good fortune of spending an afternoon perched under the night sky. For those of you struggling with the logistical and climatic implications of that last sentence, keep reading.

When a person who considers himself a stargazer—for reasons much less than scientific—finds himself stuck indoors because of the far-too enduring reality of a Nebraska winter, it becomes necessary from time to time to remind himself that the summer stargazing season will indeed find its way back here again.

Unfortunately, the view from my window that Sunday afternoon would not confirm that summer ever had actually been here in the first place, let alone that it had plans to return. In my backyard, where summertime might have produced a lawn chair suitable for lying back and gazing towards the heavens, a humungous snow boulder now sat.

As I watched the wind blow snow horizontally across my window, I desperately craved my celestial summertime fix.

But how could it ever be achieved? I faced two minor obstacles: 1) Stargazing in the winter might lead to frostbite. 2) IT WAS THE MIDDLE OF THE AFTERNOON.

In truly cosmic fashion, an epiphany arose, straight out of my childhood; in one glorious moment of clarity I remembered the most treasured, mysterious, and revered location ever frequented by Andy-the-five-year-old: the J.M. McDonald planetarium!

I quickly dialed my good friend and Hastings Museum employee, Russanne, and explained to her my situation, each of my words tinged with desperation. In a voice not quite matching the desperation of mine, she explained to me that I could still make the 3:00 p.m. showing that day.

I scurried off in my Pontiac, thrilled at the prospect of renewing my old hobby.

I arrived at the gates of the planetarium and waited patiently in line outside the moon-shaped entrance. It seemed nothing had changed—until the line started growing. I quickly realized that despite the planetarium’s familiar facade, time had indeed passed, as the people surrounding me in line were no longer my peers, but were five-year-olds hanging onto their parents’ hands.

I remembered those days of wonderment, and I wasn’t about to allow the ensuing passage of 22 years stop me from attaining the same magical experience I remembered. I dutifully followed the other kids and their parents, sank into the cozy chair in front of me, and tilted my head back for proper viewing—just like the five-year-olds were doing it.

Russanne politely introduced the show, and with that, I was off to outer space. The show’s subject matter, black holes, intrigued me.

I shuddered as the show’s narrator pondered, “Are they lurking beyond like cosmic dragons, ready to devour whatever may cross their path?” I looked beside me, and the kid with his eyes fixated on the simulated sky and chewing on his pinky didn’t seem to mind. Okay, I can handle this, I thought.

I watched as the virtual sky depicted the brilliant “death dance” of a star and how the remnants of stars could turn into a light-sucking black hole. I listened as the narrator spoke of remote planets and stars that may eventually succumb to the “cosmic cannibalism” the black holes surrounding them.

Later, I cringed at the fictional portrayal of an astronaut succumbing to “spaghettification” (exactly what it sounds like) after straying too near the event horizon of a black hole. The five-year-olds beside me still didn’t seem to mind, eyes still fixated on the virtual sky, chewing their pinkies.

The show cued up some doomsday music, and then politely informed us that the sun will likely burn out one day (in about 5 billion years), and accordingly, will have the potential to morph into a black hole.

Just as I was about to cover my eyes and ears out of sheer terror, peaceful music entered the planetarium. The narrator gently reminded our audience that everything would likely be okay, as we live on Earth, far from any black holes in the rather stable Milky Way.

I was relieved, to say the least.

With that peaceful music still humming in my ears, the day seemed to have been an overwhelming success. I got to stargaze with five-year-olds in the middle of a winter’s afternoon. The world seemed like it really was going to be safe from black holes, which I later realized are probably about as real to a five-year-old as a 401(k).

Summer would indeed come again, it seemed. And when it does, rest assured, you can find me resting in my backyard on a lawn chair, eyes fixated on the sky, chewing my pinky.

About the author: Andy Herrmann

Andy is an oh-so-inquisitive twenty-something living in Hastings.  He had a quarter-life crisis early, at the age of 23. He is an avid moviegoer and a fan of things like books, parks, music, food, road trips, and any interesting combinations thereof.