Astronomy
My Path to Fame and Riches

Stick-to-itiveness was a concept I had yet to embody, or even hear of. For I was an accomplished dabbler—and I would dabble away at anything for as long as the initial geyser of enthusiasm lasted, and not a second longer.

My excitement would flare up like a, well, like a flare, at every newfound thing I could do or be only to wilt and die away, usually at the first little obstacle in my path for me to climb or overcome or try to sidestep (which never worked).

I was not good at obstacle climbing, outright bad. I was very good at finding some other (as in easier) thing to do, though. Brilliant at it.

And then, obstacle abandoned to its well-deserved fate (good riddance), I’d be off to scour the earth for a new venture, a new role to play, a new persona to don and be adored and admired for.

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We were studying astronomy at school. Just the easy stuff. Things like The Milky Way (called The Winter Street in Sweden), The Big Dipper (called The Karla Wagon in Sweden), and the names of nearby stars and how far away they were—it would take light years to get here, the teacher told us. This was hard to get my wits around. Years!

How about the sun, someone asked, how long does sunlight take to get her? Eight minutes, we were informed by the smiling teacher. Good question, she added.

We kids looked at each other and shook our heads. Years! Imagine.

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The Swedish winter sky with the shimmering Milky Way spanning most of it and those now and then northern lights had always amazed, if not mesmerized me, and now, learning more about what I see when I look up at night, learning that this is actually a subject of study, a science, something to practice, something to be good at, world-famous for, it doesn’t even warrant a discussion: I am to become an astronomer.

And not just any astronomer, no Sir, but the greatest astronomer who ever lived. Of course.

Now, the way I saw it, to become the greatest astronomer that ever lived would, to come about, require three things:

First, a large, blue sheet of paper to house my star chart;

Second, white ink to draw the stars with—not the usual black ink on white paper star charts for me; charts for amateurs, that, who would never, like me, become great, world-renowned astronomers.

And, lastly, of course, I would need a telescope. A good one. For I was to discover undiscovered stars and galaxies by the ton, for that is how you become world-famous as an astronomer—how people come to respect and adore and write magazine articles about you.

And, those three things, of course, called for the fourth: money.

My weekly allowance at the time was one Swedish Krona—the equivalent of two dollars today as purchase power goes.

Estimated costs: a big blue sheet of paper: two kronor. That was two weeks gone. White ink: two kronor, as well. We’re talking a month’s worth of allowance. Oh, I could do that. I’d have to give up some candy and such, but no sacrifice was too large for astronomy.

But the telescope? That was a problem. Though not for the to-be-world-famous one, surely. Perusing catalogs, just to get a sense, however: well, let’s say that three years of allowance would get you the smallest of the lot.

Not for me.

Darn.

Then the solution appeared—at the back of my boy’s magazine. Oh, man, I could build one. Would build one. Look at that ad. A book that told you all about it: what you’d need, how you’d grind and polish your mirrors, how you’d put it all together, easy-to-follow instructions, guaranteed. Anyone could do this. Only three kronor.

I’d forego the star chart for now, first things first: the telescope book, three allowance weeks. And I did it. Saved my money, and ordered the thing.

Mom was so proud of me that she bought me the blue sheet of paper and white ink as a present. Way to go, Mom!

The book arrived within the week. Big book, like A4 size, not too thick though. Thin is good when it comes to building telescopes, no?

I brought this treasure of a book up to my room to scan and get my bearings and make my plans.

What I would need: a pretty long list, but nothing too daunting. Well, except for the big, round piece of glass that I would have to grind to make the main telescope mirror, and a smaller one for the reflecting mirror, the one that would send the light into your eye.

Grind?

Yes, grind—by hand.

Well, how long would I have to grind?

A week or two or three should do it, at a couple of hours a day, if you know what you’re doing.

And if you don’t?

Say a month or two, depending on how often you do the grinding, which, by the way, can get quite messy.

There were several diagrams showing how to secure the glass and how to grind it and then a photograph (not very well reproduced) showing the finished mirror.

A month or two? Of grinding?

The geyser sputtered and lost all its spunk. Maybe I should be a world-famous violinist? I was taking classes after school after all—first year, mind you, but perhaps I am a child prodigy and just haven’t discovered that yet. Surely must be easier than grinding glass for months on end.

And the blue paper and white ink?

I think I drew four or five stars before the ink (which obviously hated me) pooled and made one large white ink puddle on the paper, too big and solid to even call a distant galaxy.

Darn. Can’t let Mom see this.

Violin turned out the be harder than I thought. How about the flute? I was pretty good at the recorder.

Et cetera.

I still play the flute, by the way, but nowhere near concert quality. More to amuse myself than anything.

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Growing up I left a conspicuous trail of incomplete projects and abandoned dreams and it was not until almost twenty-five years later that I finally knew what it meant to overcome any size obstacle: In 1984, after a dozen failed attempts I finally quit my by then twenty-year habit of smoking which at times meant two or three packs a day.

Some say it’s harder to quit nicotine than heroin, but I did it and have now remained smoke-free for going on forty years.

And I have completed many projects and realized quite a few dreams since then.

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