Sunday, June 24, 2007
Tales from the Possum Swamp Astronomical Society
Let's turn back the clock, muchachos ….waaay back to the early 1990s. Back in them days, female amateurs were still something of a rarity among astronomy club members. The PSAS was actually better balanced in that regard than a lot of clubs, with the Founding Members roster (1984) being composed of almost 1/3 women. Still, some jaws dropped when purty (well, purty young, anyhow) Junie Moon walked into one of the PSAS’s monthly meetings one quiet summer evening.
Things were just getting underway at the club’s usual meeting place, the backroom of Snuffy Smith’s grocery/filling station/bait shop, when a little blonde flounced in and chirped, “Howdy, y’all! I jus’ LOVE the stars.”
After our club President at the time, Bubba (he of the 300 pound physique, bald head, and bib-overalls), picked himself up off the floor, we greeted Junie effusively. Turned out she didn’t have a 'scope yet, and several of my (male) compadres crawled all over themselves in an effort to answer that always sticky question,“Which is Better, the Meade or the Celestron?” before our new member could even ask it.
This threw the whole meeting agenda into disarray (we was all set to argue about the prospect of an AL dues increase for a couple of hours ), and I noticed Club Queen and doyen-supreme, Miss Ellie, had an expression on her face that began as a slight downturn at the corners of her mouth, evolved into a frown, and came to rest as a downright sneer as Junie's cuteness began to reach critical mass with much giggling and eye-fluttering.
In the year or two that Junie Moon attended PSAS meetings, I watched her carefully (not that way, y’all…I’d long-since learned through bitter experience that perky blondes are poison for me—God love ‘em). She never had any shortage of admirers buzzing around her, trying (endlessly) to help her choose a telescope. Junie, it seemed, never could work herself around to making up her mind. Someone would start expounding on the utility of an 8-inch dob, for example, and before he (natch) could get far, Junie’s puzzled expression would give way to waves of giggles.
Still, Junie attended every meeting and most public star parties faithfully. When invited to look through a scope, she'd do so, if—I thought—somewhat half-heartedly. Her unvarying response? A disinterested, “Oh, my goodness, that looks nice.”
On the social side, I recall a few of my brothers tried to make dates with Junie, but she had a marvelous facility for deflecting these proposals, “Oh, I do love the way you joke around, it just kills me.” Miss Ellie would grit her teeth.
Frankly, I was a bit irritated myself. Well, kind of. Normally, I’d have said something to my bros about their behavior regrading Junie. Back in the bad old days, reasonably attractive young women were so few in number at most astronomy clubs that the appearance of one inspired male members to a bull-moose stampede that soon chased the object of their imagined desires away. It was, I'll admit, amusing to see mousy little Hiram, an accountant by profession, try to play Me Tarzan, You Jane with Miss Moon. Junie seemed to positively be enjoying herself, anyway, so who was I to spoil her fun—or save my comrades from middle-aged-silliness? I stayed out of it.
It all finally came to a head at the annual Hoot-Owl Star Party (HOSP), the big yearly event down here; one that draws amateurs from as far away as Jackson, Mississippi, if you can believe that. Shortly after my arrival on-site, I was standing in the parking lot near the PSAS' assigned cabin talking with Ellie, who was in an expansive mood inspired by the prospect of taking first light with her brand-new 15-inch Dobsonian. This mood was spoiled by the appearance on the scene of Junie, who greeted Ellie as if she were a long-lost friend:
“Oh, Mizz Ellie, it is so good to see you. Maybe you can help me. Do you have any pepper?” Miss E. was both mollified by Junie’s turning to her for help and also mystified.
“Yes, ma’m. Some black pepper.”
“What do you need pepper for, girl?”
“I need to put some in my shoes. You know…all these woods…to keep the boogers away.” It was my turn to be puzzled. Boogers? As in…something out of Junie’s cute little snub-nose? Then it dawned on me that what she was talking about was EVIL SPIRITS. It is an old country belief that pepper in the shoe keeps the evil eye, hobgoblins, haints, and all sorts of bad things at bay.
While I was pondering this country wisdom, Ellie had retrieved a truss tube from her vehicle and was advancing menacingly on Junie Moon, “Why you <censored> little snip of a girl, I have had just about enough of your <censored> foolishness."
Unfortunately, it was at this point that Junie unwisely chose to sass the physically imposing Miss E., “Well I’ve had enough of you, you mean old woman!” That did it. The last I saw of Junie, she was running across the observing field toward her car at break neck speed, just inches ahead of Ellie, who was swinging that truss pole like Casey at the bat. Poor Miss Moon was too scared to even do much hollering. Just ahead of certain doom, Junie hopped into her VW bug convertible and roared—well, puttered—away. Ellie? She was in uncharacteristically good humor for the remainder of the star party.
That was the last I saw of the infamous Junie Moon, muchachos, but not the last I heard of her. A mutual acquaintance ran into her one day at the Eastern Shore Centre (mall), Junie’s natural habitat. This person mentioned my name to Miss Moon, who allowed as I was “OK.” She added, though, that she’d had to drop out of the club not only because of the presence of a Mean Old Woman, but (she said), “Because the whole time I was at that silly Astrology club not one of them people would tell me my horoscope.”
The story you have just read is (almost) true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty).