My mother taught me two things that shaped my life: the transformative power of imagination and the power of dreaming big. This post is a tribute to my mother, the person who first taught me the purpose of imagination and the beauty of a broader horizon.
Imaginairum Theater
The Week's Best Videos From Around the World, Edited for a Gentler Audience
The Space Center's Newest Facebook Ad
Did you know there was an unofficial podcast for the Space Centering community? I know — "centering" isn't a real word, but what other word should I use to describe everyone who works or volunteers at the many space centers here, there, and someday, everywhere? I shamelessly borrowed the idea from Harry Potter — the Wizarding community.
Back in 2017, Matt Ricks approached me to be a guest on their new podcast. They explained that it would serve as a permanent record of the history of space centers, told by those who created, worked, volunteered, acted, sacrificed, cried, screamed, and bled because of them. "Dry Dock" is the name of this Smithsonian-style oral history project that captures everything related to the space centers. I praised their efforts and gladly agreed to be a guest on the first episode as someone with founder status.
They met me at Renaissance Academy late one afternoon. Before we started the interview, they asked if I needed to use the bathroom. How considerate of them to recognize the needs of the elderly. I assured them I was ready with a fresh Depends. After a microphone check, the questions came rapidly. I was asked questions that reached deep into my memory.
"What childhood events led you to where you are today?" Matt asked. "Do you blame your parents? Teachers? Bishop...?" I shifted uncomfortably in a hard sixth-grade plastic chair.
"I'm feeling uncomfortable with this line of questioning," I said defensively. "I need to go to my happy place."
Fortunately, they reluctantly edited out the most invasive questions after receiving a letter from my lawyer. What remains on the recording is a wonderful story about a humble teacher from the backwoods of South Dakota finding his creative voice as a sixth-grade teacher at one of Alpine School District's smallest elementary schools. If you don’t feel moved when the story ends, and the final goodbye is spoken, you have no heart.
Space News by Mark Daymont
The Artemis is ready for Launch! Off to the Moon! (Let's Try This One More Time)
KPop Laser Hunters is a Big Hit at the Space Center. Book Tickets Today!
Imaginairum Theater
The Week's Best Videos From Around the World, Edited for a Gentler Audience
This is Matt. You rarely see Matt. If you have ever caught a glimpse of him, it was likely during one of his brief "surfacing" moments: perhaps while he was using the staff room microwave or heading toward the back hallway. You might have noticed the Space Center shirt and wondered who he was, but you probably left the question unanswered, wary of interrupting his focus despite his disarming smile and generally friendly aura.
Today, I’m pulling back the curtain to reveal a little-known corner of the Space Center that is off-limits to volunteers and rarely visited by staff. I call it Matt’s World.
Last week, I happened upon Matt in the Staff Room. We exchanged a friendly greeting and caught up on the latest news. He mentioned he was working on a new dial-and-switch panel for one of the simulators.
"Here?" I asked, surprised. He nodded. "Where is this workshop? I know the Space Center inside and out, and I’ve never seen a workshop." I kept my voice casual; Matt leads a quiet life of electronic solitude and doesn't always appreciate a hard interrogation.
"You really want to know?" he responded, seemingly surprised that anyone would be interested in his tucked-away workspace. He gestured toward the door with a slight tilt of his head.
He led me to a nondescript gray door near the guest bathrooms—the one with the warning signs. As he pushed it open, he revealed the inner sanctum. It was a cinder-block fortress housing the Space Center’s massive air-handling units and furnaces. Shelves lined the walls, acting as a graveyard for the "land of forgotten trinkets"—props, circuit boards, and gadgets that had served their purpose years ago and were now retired to the shadows.
"I’m over here," Matt spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he didn't want to wake the sleeping machinery. We rounded a corner, and there I saw it: the beating heart of Matt’s World.
His workstation was an island of organized chaos amidst the dust of the furnace room. On the bench sat a massive, skeletal panel, its face awaiting transformation into the bridge of a starship.
Matt’s hands moved with the steady precision of a surgeon. He was currently deep into the "wiring phase," a complex labyrinth of multicolored threads connecting heavy toggle switches to analog meters and digital displays.
"It’s not just about making it work," he explained. "It’s about making it look real."
Matt's masterpieces are works of art in the simulators. When a visitor flips a master switch, the panels hum to life. Their dials pulse with color. The LEDs provide crisp, futuristic lighting that makes the panels look like million-dollar pieces of aerospace engineering. To the kids flying missions in the simulators, they are pieces of a starship; to Matt, they are a labor of love and logic.
Despite his mastery of hardware, this is actually Matt’s "side quest." By day, he works from the quiet of his home as a professional programmer—the "real job" that pays the bills. But his heart clearly enjoys the tactile click of a physical switch just as much as a clean line of code.
Off to the side of his desk, resting on compartments of diodes, sat a lonely chicken pot pie, still in its box, waiting for its turn in the microwave. It was a humble lunch for a man who spent his hours building the future.
Family life also weaves through the Space Center’s halls. Matt is married to Tabitha, the Center’s head of staff training and development. While Tabitha is busy shaping the human element of the center, Matt is in the basement shaping the mechanical one. Between their high-tech careers and their time at the Center, they’re also busy raising a young preschool-aged daughter—perhaps a future commander or engineer in the making.
I left Matt to his LEDs and his cold pot pie, closing the gray door behind me. The next time you see a flickering light on a simulator console or a dial that reacts perfectly to a crewmember's touch, remember the man in the cinder-block fortress.
Dave and Team are Busy at Work on the Starbase
There is one fact of life as constant as the rising sun: A little sugar a day keeps the blues away.
While our missions run on imagination and high-tech simulations, did you know that sugar plays the most vital role of all? It is the literal grease that keeps the Space Center’s wheels turning. Sugar is what keeps our staff and volunteers smiling even when a station glitches, the AC dies in the control room, or—heaven forbid—a cadet loses their lunch on the Bridge.
The lobby desk serves as our primary Sugar Dispenser, but the true magic happens in the Space Center Office. There lies the Sugar Vault, a high-security chamber overflowing with confectionery delights.
Sugar is the ultimate "Mission Accomplished" reward. It’s dispensed to our volunteers at the end of every shift as a tribute to their hard work (provided they’ve been productive and eaten their vegetables). We keep the vault stocked because we know the universal truth: kids love sugar, teens love sugar, and adults love sugar.
Heck, let’s face it—I love sugar.
If you’ve never been at the Space Center during a busy shift change, especially when all the simulators have flown a mission and end at the same time, you’ve missed a spectacle reminiscent of the crowd you'll see at the concession stand at a theater. A sea of black-shirted volunteers gathered around the one lobby staff member, each barking out their order for sugar or credits. Our youngest volunteers quickly learn the first rule of survival: Get out of the way of the veterans and wait your turn.
Today, let’s take a moment to celebrate an unsung hero of our daily operations. It’s never mentioned in the brochures, but it’s the special lubricant that keeps our volunteering gears turning; the life-sustaining dispensing of glucose from the Lobby’s Candy Rx.
A massive thank you to our incredible volunteers for their tireless work on behalf of the students of Utah... and to the sugar that makes it all possible!
— Mr. Williamson
The Space Center is unique in many ways, but perhaps our greatest challenge is the technical skill required to operate our simulators. We can’t simply hire someone off the street and have them flight-ready in a few days.
Operating a starship requires a highly trained staff. That is why we maintain an In-House Training Academy. We take talented volunteers and put them through months of coursework, on-the-job observations, and evaluations. Only after they have mastered the systems are they cleared to lead our guests out into the unknown.
Under the leadership of Tabitha Ricks, Director of the Internship Training Program, we are proud to announce our newest Level 1 graduate: Benson.
Yesterday, Benson successfully passed his final evaluation to become a Magellan 2.5-hour Supervisor. If he is on the bridge of your next Magellan mission, you can rest assured you’re in expert hands.
Congratulations, Benson! By completing this portion of your internship, you join the ranks of the hundreds who have gone before you over the last 35 years. You have officially earned your Royal Blues (the supervisor staff shirt).
Thank you for your incredible dedication to the Space Center’s mission. We’ll see you on the Bridge!
— The Space Center Team
This Section of the weekly Troubadour post reminds us that we are standing on the shoulders of giants:
The Space Center is often defined by its blinking lights, sprawling simulators, and high-stakes missions, but the true heartbeat of this place has always been human. For over 35 years, our "Starships" haven't just been powered by electricity or imagination; they have been fueled by the dedication of thousands of volunteers and staff.
From the early pioneers who staffed those first missions to the newest graduates like Benson earning their Royal Blues, our history is a mosaic of service. These aren't just names in a logbook; they are the architects of the magic we experience every day.
Here are more of those stories....
March 2008
Hello Troops,
Andrew H. is one of our volunteers. He is working on a new 'look' for the Odyssey simulator. Of course, the real Odyssey sits behind a wall in a room at the Space Center, but in the fantasy world of our stories, it needs an exterior look. This is how it would look in space if it were real. Andrew finished a model of his new Odyssey. I thought I'd post it here for all to see and comment on.
Mr. Williamson
The Head Cranker
There are times I get chuckles just watching a crew in action on the Voyager. Last week, I was running the Voyager mission for a sixth-grade class. There were two boys working at Damage Control. It just so happens that the camera above the first officer always points to Damage Control and Left Wing. The camera's direction gave me a perfect view of "the head cranker".
There are many intense moments in "Intolerance". It is easy for a crew member to become distracted. Once distracted, it can take several minutes to refocus a kid back to his job. I'm used to seeing kids abandon their jobs and watch the action unfold around them. This was not the case with one of the boys at Damage Control. Several times during the mission, the officer working on the right computer would stop working and look around, following the excitement of the mission. This was normal. I didn't pay attention. Suddenly, the boy on the left computer reached up with both hands to remedy the situation. One hand was placed on the back of the other boy's head, and the other on his chin. Then, "CRANK," the boy turned his head back to his computer. I read his lips. "Get to work!"
In seventeen years, I've never seen a kid take the situation into their hands like that. The rest of the mission was a joy to watch. Every time the right boy became distracted, the left boy would reach up and crank his head back to his computer with the same words, "Get to Work!" I'm guessing it happened over 20 times during the mission. I was amazed that the boy on the right didn't punch the kid out, but he calmly went back to work for a few minutes before looking around again. Then...Crank........
Towards the end of the mission, the right boy had worked out a system where he could take super-fast glances without getting caught by the boy on the left. He adapted to the situation. I was amused. It was awesome to watch.
Mr. Williamson
A Camper's Email
Odyssey's Ghost Ship Was Awesome!
Imaginairum Theater
The Week's Best Videos From Around the World, Edited for a Gentler Audience
Alex Anderson was the presenter at the February Voyager Club meeting held at the Space Center on Saturday, February 28. His topic was the art and science of the perfect simulator's tactical screen.
Alex Anderson and His Effect on Women. (March 1, 2009)
I've been impressed with Alex A's talent both as a programmer and as a Flight Director. This weekend, I was a witness to another undiscovered talent: Alex A's effect on females.
I returned from running an errand in Orem and found a woman wearing a Phoenix uniform sitting in the Briefing Room. A man was standing beside her, also in uniform. Of course, I guessed they were part of the Phoenix crew. Alex was their Flight Director. They were on a five-hour mission. The woman didn't look well. The man was beside her as if offering additional support.
"I'm feeling better," I heard her say. I turned around to ask about the circumstances and found the Phoenix Control Room empty. The crew was on a break. A few moments later, Alex appeared.
"We had a woman faint on the bridge," he said innocently. "I was in the middle of the mission, and she just fainted. It was the craziest thing."
I looked at him in amazement. "Alex, are you telling me that this woman, not girl, a WOMAN, fainted during one of your missions? What effect do you have on women anyway? Was it your voice? Was it your inflection? Perhaps it was a combination of the music and your voice. I've heard such a thing was possible, but never in my 18 years as a Flight Director have I brought on lightheadedness in a woman. I've caused multiple cases of vomiting, but never fainting. What a Casanova. You stud!"
It was dark, so I couldn't see the multiple shades of red parading across Alex's face, but he did laugh. I told him this was something I had to write about in this week's Troubadour Post.
"Why do you think I told you?" he responded. With that, he disappeared into the Phoenix's Control Room.
I noticed a moment later, his Engineer character suddenly had a very suave voice. I mentioned to his second chair, Dave Daymont, to keep an eye on him and not let him get carried away.
Have a Great Week, Troops!
Mr. Williamson
From the Archives. March 1, 2008
Overnight Camper Satisfaction Scores
From the Archives. March 1, 2009
The week got off to a semi-fluid start on Monday. I was in my Flight Director's chair, my Bridge speech was finished, and my 'Tex' character was in full voice. I was introducing the Left Wing Power Officer to the rest of the Bridge Crew, explaining his strange habit of screaming whenever the engine temperatures reached 90, when I saw Lorraine spring to her feet. Something had caught her attention. Her quick sprint toward the Record's office meant someone was in trouble. Not knowing the facts, I continued my introductions. I was explaining the reasons for the engineer's smile (he sits higher than everyone else—you’ve heard the speech a thousand times) when it dawned on me what was happening.
VOMIT. It had all the signs of a gastric explosion on my Bridge. My first instinct was to dive under my counter and pretend nothing had happened, but after 18 years, I’ve learned you cannot wish it away. Both eye and nose testify to its presence. I had to choose: stop the mission for hazard control, or let Lorraine and Metta deal with it while I forged ahead at full warp.
Lorraine burst through the Control Room door, confirming that we had a vomiteer on the bridge. “GIVE HER THE HAPPY BUCKET!” I said to the staff in a voice of controlled panic.
“She has a trash can,” Lorraine said. The situation was under control. Lorraine is a wonderful mom with an intimate knowledge of these situations. I’m told all mothers do; it comes with the training.
"How much are we dealing with?" I asked, envisioning something the size of a pond on the bridge carpet.
“There isn’t much,” Lorraine noted. “She caught most of it in her hands.”
(Doesn't that leave you with a wonderful mental picture :)
My thanks to Lorraine and Metta for their help with our Monday morning explosion. I also want to thank the girl’s mother for feeding her a light breakfast—the remains of which were very easy to clean up. The rest of the day went well. How could it not? If you start with a gastric explosion, the only way to go is up!"
Imginarium Theater
The Week's Best Videos From Around the World, Edited for a Gentler Audience