Sky & Telescope March 1989 [antikvár]

FOCAL POINTAffecting EternityAs a teenage amateur astronomer, I filled my head with grandiose plans for adulthood: 1 would become a leading planetary astronomer, a famous historian of science, maybe even an astronaut. Having already mapped out my life, 1 turned my attention to the acquisition of a mentor, someone who could assist me in achieving my ambitions. In my adolescent fantasies, I pictured myself sitting (figuratively, of course) at the knee of some giant of science, collecting pearls of technical wisdom and absorbing astronomical arcana. With the guidance of this mentor, I would myself become a giant of science, and my astronomical achievements would astound the world.Unfortunately for the world but fortunately for me the mentor I actually did acquire had some different ideas. She was Jocelyn Ruth Gill, an astronomer at NASA. I met her in South America more than 20 years ago. My parents arranged our meeting upon learning of her visit they were relieved to find someone who could communicate with their son, who talked of light-years and pe-riod-luminosity relations. We corresponded from 1965 until shortly before her death in 1984.Yes, I collected pearls of technical wisdom from Dr. Gill; yes, I absorbed many astronomical arcana. But these were not the most valuable gleanings from my relationship with her.First of all, she taught me that intellectual snobbery need not accompany academic and professional excellence. Gill received her Ph.D. in astronomy and astrophysics from Yale in 1959, writing her dissertation on the motion of Triton. When 1 began writing to her, she was very busy as a staff scientist in NASA's Manned Space Science Programs Office, teaching astronauts how to conduct scientific experiments aboard Mercury and Gemini flights. Clearly, her professional demands were pressing. Yet she took the time to correspond frequently with the eager 13-year-old who had foisted his acquaintance upon her.The tone of Gill's letters, always informal and cordial, eased my initial intimidation. She never reminded me of my youthand inexperience; instead, she treated me as a potential colleague. Encouraged by her friendliness, 1 embraced astronomy, and my confidence grew.Gill willingly paid the price for my growing confidence. She diligently responded to my many technical questions, in the process steering me toward Norton's Star Alias and Sky Telescope.When I expressed dissatisfaction with the blurred television transmission from Tranquillity Base during Apollo 11, she sent me a note describing her visit to the Lunar Receiving Laboratory in Houston, where the lunar rocks would be brought. And following each space mission, she sent me NASA publications, photographs, and other materials that absorbed me for hours.However, my confidence sometimes burgeoned into cocksureness, and my letters occasionally contained astronomical jargon, reflecting my conceit that 1 had finally joined the ranks of the informed and aloof. When I slipped thus into vanity. Gill gently returned me to simplicity and humility. Once, after 1 had besieged her with spectral classifications, she commented, "It's a beautiful evening, sunset aglow and lots of activity on the waterfront. Just waiting for the Perseids,and they ought to appear any time." Her characteristic tempering of knowledge with beauty, of fact with mystery, showed me that, as George Santayana wrote in The Life of Reason, "Science is nothing but developed perception."Gill's humility in the face of nature nowhere showed itself more clearly than in her attitude toward her own failing physical abilities. She had suffered from multiple sclerosis since before I met her. She endured rapid debilitation, soon became confined to a wheelchair, and later lost the use of her hands. Throughout this physical deterioration, however, she remained busy and cheerful, as good a correspondent as ever, her attention always focused outward instead of on her own hardship. I have often thought of her courage in the face of this disease when my own much less serious afflictions have threatened to assume a disproportionate influence over my life.In the end, I did not become a leading planetary astronomer, a famous historian of science, or an astronaut. But I did become an adult with a modicum of intellectual confidence and curiosity, a suspicion of academic and professional cant, a great respect for those who strive and thrive despite personal handicaps and a continuing enjoyment of amateur astronomy. For these gifts, I have primarily Jocelyn Gill to thank. I tried once before to express my gratitude when, in 1968, I built a backyard observatory and ingenuously named the shack in her honor. She responded, "Hurrah for the J. R. Gill Observatory wish I could have been there for the opening. I am delighted with this tribute, one which people customarily receive, if at all, posthumously."Now, 20 years later, I'd like to thank her again. She was, as Henry Adams put it in his Education, one of those teachers who "affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops."ROBERT D. HICKSThe author went on to study anthropology and archeology, and to enjoy a career in fields such as law enforcement and naval cryptology.Focal Point invites contributions from readers who wish to comment on contemporary issues in astronomy and space science.236 Sky & Telescope, March, 1989