Hello Space Center Community,
Years ago, in the old Troubadour blog, I used to write stories that placed the Space Center's staff and volunteers in the Middle Ages, working as troubadours who brought music and stories to the villages of the shire. One Christmas, I crafted a tale where all of us gathered at a Midnight Mass. This year, I’ve decided to revive that tradition with a new story inspired by the original from way back. While most of you are part of the narrative—even if unnamed—the spirit of this tale reflects our shared journey. The blog’s title, The Troubadour, was inspired by the storytellers of the Middle Ages who traveled from village to village. Their work bears a striking resemblance to what we do today in our planetarium and simulators. Troubadours captivated audiences with engaging narratives, whether through song, spoken word, or performance. Similarly, we bring stories to life, immersing our audiences in missions that transport them to the farthest reaches of space. Troubadours conveyed themes of love, chivalry, and societal norms—themes not so different from those we explore in our space missions, which delve into contemporary values, relationships, and the challenges of humanity. They evoked deep emotions through their poetry, stories, and music, just as we connect with our audiences on an emotional level through the immersive experiences we create. Moreover, troubadours were keepers of oral tradition, preserving stories and passing them from generation to generation. In much the same way, our missions are handed down from one generation of flight directors to the next, each adding their own creative flair. Both the troubadours of the past and our flight directors craft stories that resonate with their audiences, leaving a lasting impact. So, as we continue this tradition, let us remember that we are modern-day troubadours, weaving tales of exploration and discovery that inspire and unite our community. Below is this year’s story—a blend of history, imagination, and the shared spirit of the Space Center. Merry Christmas! Mr. Williamson The Troubadours Gather for Christmas Midnight Mass The priest’s voice echoed through the vaulted cathedral, his words rippling like waves against the gray stone walls. The sound danced up into the rafters, where it softened into whispers, lost among the timbers. My knees rested on a dark wooden plank, smooth from years of penitence, attached to the pew before me. My hands clasped tightly in prayer as I bowed my head, my eyes flickering open and shut with each sacred utterance. The priest’s Latin was both a stranger and a familiar friend to my ears. A stranger, for its meaning was veiled to all save those who knew the Roman tongue. A friend, for I trusted that the priest’s supplications were made to God on our behalf. This faith brought me comfort on that bitterly cold Christmas morning in the Shire. My prayers escaped my lips as soft clouds of breath, dissolving into the frosty air and settling as invisible moisture on my chilled hands. Each prayer was a humble plea: for health, the warmth of summer, abundant harvests, and joyous evenings of story and song. I tugged my coarse woolen coat tighter around my chest, though it was a futile gesture against winter’s relentless bite. The priest, in contrast, was robed in fine silk and linen, his vestments gleaming with gold embroidery. I wondered if he felt the cold as we did. As he raised a golden chalice filled with wine toward the heavens, an altar boy rang a delicate bell. We were reminded that this was the moment when the wine became Christ’s blood, shed for the forgiveness of sins. The sacraments formed a sacred bridge between Earth and Heaven, offering comfort and connection in a world often fraught with uncertainty. My gaze wandered down the pew to my fellow troubadours, companions in both purpose and artistry. This was a fitting moment to offer thanks for their camaraderie. Together, we knelt, some in reverence, others in quiet respect though wishing they were elsewhere, and the youngest out of a sense of duty yet to deepen into true devotion. My reflections were interrupted by soft laughter from behind. Two of our maiden voyagers whispered, their eyes fixed on the Baron’s eldest son. Their cheeks flushed with youthful thoughts of love, a distraction ill-suited to the solemnity of the chapel. I cleared my throat and furrowed my brow, a silent rebuke. They understood and redirected their attentions to the service. The choir’s chant filled the cathedral, their voices weaving a melody that seemed to warm the very stones around us. I noted Brother James, our leader, in a front pew. His expression was serene, despite word having arrived of troubles in the shire. Our fiefdom was soon to be three. There would be new lords to serve, each wanting something from our band of troubadours. The path ahead will be difficult, yet he knows from where his strength comes. Goodwife Tabitha’s presence among us that morning was a blessing; many thought she would miss the Christmas Mass. The evening's latest hours found her educating our gifted young troubadours in the art of story and music; for soon they will perform alone on our stage. She teaches them by word and example, her resilience as vibrant as her performances. Her work is in our prayers, for in the voices of these young troubadours, lie the fortunes of the band. A sudden ringing of the altar bell pulled me back to the present. The congregation echoed the priest’s words, but a discordant sound caught my attention. To my left, Master Jon had succumbed to sleep, his head resting heavily in his hand. His snores rose steadily, threatening to rival the cathedral organ. Maiden Ellie, seated beside him, intervened with a gentle yet forceful nudge that nearly sent him sprawling to the stone floor. The younger troubadours stifled their laughter, though their mirth was short-lived as Goodwife Brylee silenced them with a stern glance and a finger to her lips. Chastened, Master Jon straightened, his face reddening as he resolved to stay awake under our collective gaze. Such moments of levity reminded me of the simple joys found in a simple life. The Mass drew toward its conclusion. My thoughts turned once more to prayer. These were troubled times, bringing uncertainty to the kingdom. Wars raged in distant lands, and whispers of a plague reached us from nearby shires. Yet on this holy night, we gave thanks for the blessings we still held: the warmth of family and friends, the strength of our community of travelers, and the enduring hope that we could weather whatever trials lay ahead. As the final prayers were spoken, my knees ached from the cold, and I was grateful when it came time to rise. The great wooden doors of the cathedral creaked open, and the dark morning's north wind swept in, biting and sharp. Yet beyond those doors awaited a warm fire and the promise of rest. With renewed faith and hearts fortified by the sacred mysteries, we stepped out into the night, carrying the light of Christmas within us. Imaginarium Theater.
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AuthorMy name is Victor Williamson. I founded the Christa McAuliffe Space Center in 1990. I current teach 6th grade at Renaissance Academy and am the Space Center Outreach Coordinator (I take care of the volunteers). You can reach me by email: [email protected] Archives
October 2024
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