Zaitz Observatory

When Morning Gilds the Skies

2011-07-29T18:53:00.000-07:00

I love hymns. This is one of my favorites.

Sing, suns and stars of space, sing, ye that see His face,
Sing, Jesus Christ be praised!
God’s whole creation o’er, for aye and evermore
Shall Jesus Christ be praised!When morning gilds the skies my heart awaking cries:
May Jesus Christ be praised!
Alike at work and prayer, to Jesus I repair:
May Jesus Christ be praised!

In Heav’n’s eternal bliss the loveliest strain is this,
May Jesus Christ be praised!
Let earth, and sea and sky from depth to height reply,
May Jesus Christ be praised!

Radio Wave Tan!

2010-10-10T17:19:00.001-07:00

I dunno if you can get a "tan" from radio waves like you can from UV, but they sure got into my head!

Astro-geeks! Teachers, college and high school.

I sure did get a kick out of our trip to the top of the 100 meter dish- here's me hamming it up- not quite as bad as when I was "lounging" on the Stonehenge stones...but that's ancient history (tee hee!)!

We actually did some research at the National Radio Astronomy Observatory in Greenbank, West Virgina. The high school and college students had the first night and part of the second- but as the glow from the excitement of pulling all-nighters and trying to stay awake all day faded, they dropped like flies, and the adults in the group had some room in the tiny odoriferous hamster-cage control room under the ten meter. I felt like Laura Ingalls in the little dugout room, but Laura Ingalls never got data from a hydrogen cloud in our galaxy, and she never was able to decipher its motion! (unlike me!)

Sleeping Bear and NRAO

2010-07-29T13:11:00.000-07:00

Image courtesy of NRAO/AUI

Coming soon: my trip to NRAO. I am beside myself with excitement. Not literally...

In other news: After such a long, quiet minimum, I am REALLY looking forward to the rise in solar activity. It's kind of like wanting to wake a sleeping bear, but how beautiful are the arcing plasma rivers and the wispy coronal holes leaking what will become the Auroral displays in our polar skies? Alan Friedman's image on Spacecweather.com is incredible!

What I loved best about my Summer Astronomy Adventure

2008-07-31T18:06:00.000-07:00

By C. Zaitz

I only noticed the thin air when I was either walking up a hill or getting excited.
This night I was doing both. A week from when we arrived in Arizona on a ten day “Astronomy Adventure,” a dream finally came true. I was walking up hill to an observatory, excited and breathless, ready to spend five hours shadowing astronomers and telescope operators on their jobs.

On the first night, the two astronomers whom we met were very polite and welcoming to us. My partner and I were very thrilled to be there and a little “starstruck” to be in the big leagues, which may have reassured them that we wouldn’t hamper their work. Our main guide was very talkative and funny, giving us humorous glimpses into what goes on in the dome all night long, and how he keeps himself awake when we hits the “wall” in the wee hours of the morning. The other astronomer, a young grad student, was nice enough to draw me pictures of her research on intermediate Seyfert Galaxies. These are galaxies with extremely bright cores, thought to be gigantic black holes. Her research had to do with figuring out the orientation of these galaxies, since the hot topic in AGNs or Active Galactic Nuclei galaxies is that they may be the one object behind three faces; we’ve seen them as quasars, blazars and Seyferts depending on their orientation.

The astronomers also operated the telescope, and watching them do that was also awe inspiring. Though we didn’t get to look through the instrument ( we had to bite our tongues not to call them “scopes!”) we got an excellent view into what makes a research astronomer tick. I will take that glimpse back into the classroom to enrich the picture I paint about what scientists can do for a career.

Where Are the Stars?

2008-07-11T05:02:00.001-07:00

5/11/08 – 5/17/08
by C. Zaitz

We tend to think of the night sky as having an infinite number of stars, but in all reality we can only see one or two hundred in our local sky. This fact seems to contradict poems and prose that refer to the sky full of "countless stars." So where are all the stars?

From earth, we see the individual stars that make up the familiar constellations like Orion and Leo. Stars like Betelgeuse and Sirius are either fairly close, or really big, or both. They appear much brighter than the rest of the stars in the sky. They are so noticeable that they were granted proper names, rather than just catalogue numbers like the rest of the visible stars. But there are only a few hundred bright stars with proper names. The rest are either just too far away, too faint and unnoticeable. We see them as the blurry path in the sky called the Milky Way.

When we look up at night, nearly everything we can see is part of our galaxy. The Milky Way is home to several hundred billion stars in different stages of life and death. We only see several hundred of them when we look up at night due to light pollution from sources like civilization and the moon. On a dark, clear night away from a metropolitan area, maybe thousands of stars are visible. But where are the rest of them? Where are the other billions?

Our galaxy is a flat disk of stars with a bulge in the middle, like a flying saucer made out of sand. Each “sand grain” is a star like our sun, but there are other things in the galaxy, like clouds of gas and dust called nebulae. These clouds might be stars waiting to form, or stars that have exploded. Often when these giant clouds form stars, they form in big groups called clusters. When you put honey into a bowl of granola, the granola clumps around the honey. Imagine that gravity is the honey. Gravity causes the gas to clump and out of the clumps are born stars. Most stars that you see in the sky formed in groups, but over time they scatter. Our own sun seems to stand alone, but most likely formed in a group of stars that long ago scattered. Most of the stars in the Milky Way are too far away for us to see individually now. They are scattered throughout the galaxy, which is over 100,000 light years end to end.

Other clouds are from stars that have exploded, flinging their gas and dust back whence they came; cold, empty space. Dark clouds or nebulae block light from stars beyond them. As we look along the galaxy, along the flat disk of milky faraway stars, we can detect these dark clouds. They look like dark smoke hiding the bright stars behind them. The best time to see the dark clouds and stars of our galaxy is in the summer time. The Milky Way looks like a swath of milky light stretching from north to south overhead, but only from places where there are very few lights, or on an evening with no moon. Summer time is a good time because we often get to leave our cities and find places with fewer lights, lower populations, and a much better view of our home galaxy.
You may not see the billions of stars, but you'll get enough starlight in your eyes to appreciate our tiny place in the vast galaxy, the Milky Way.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Jewels in the Spring Sky

2008-07-05T12:16:00.001-07:00

4/20/08 – 4/26/08
by C. Zaitz

If you like sparkly things, there is something in the spring sky worth looking at. We’ve been used to dashing from car to work, and back home, without so much as a quick glance skyward all winter long. But now we’re beginning to walk and jog after work, to play with the kids and the dog in the yard, and to notice the outdoors a little more. So what are we seeing in our spring sky? On spring evenings, the stars can glitter wildly as the moving air blinks and twinkles their light. Moving air causes the light from distant stars to jump around and blink on and off like Christmas lights. As pretty as it looks, it makes the image in a telescope look blurry. But when the wind dies down and the temperature rises, there are some spectacular sights to be seen. Two that I'd like to describe look like fuzzy blobs in the sky, but turn spectacular jewels through a telescope.

The first is a very famous fuzzy blotch that is very hard to see with the naked eye, but is one of the most popular destinations for telescopes and binoculars. It is called M-13, but we know it better as the Hercules Cluster. It is a giant group of stars called a globular cluster. Globular clusters are common in galaxies, but they are rebels in a sense. They don't generally ride the spiral arms of the galaxy like the rest of the stars. They can be found high above or below the plane of the Milky Way, in its halo. Spring is an excellent time to spot globular clusters, because we are looking out away from the plane of the galaxy, to the halo area where they live. The Hercules cluster is home to over a million stars, but the true beauty of the cluster comes from the fact that the stars are much closer together than stars in the rest of the galaxy. Instead of a 3 light year average separation, the stars of M13 are on average only one light year apart, making the cluster dense and very brightly sparkly. It's a trick I would use if I was a jeweler and had diamonds to set. The dense packing of stars in a globular cluster make them some of the most beautiful objects to see.

Another famous cluster seen in the spring is M44, known as the Beehive cluster. It is just in front of the sickle shape of stars that marks the head of Leo the Lion. It is one of the nearest and largest open clusters we can see, and therefore one of the brightest. You can see its fuzzy glow with the naked eye, but both clusters really shine when you view them through a telescope. Their true nature will be revealed as you begin to see the individuals making up these vast clouds of stars. Open clusters are made of young, hot, blue stars, and live in the plane of our galaxy, so they are different in appearance and make-up from globular clusters. If I were trying to match their character as a jeweler, I would select the brightest and clearest diamonds to set in a less dense, but still brilliant way.

To find these beautiful objects, it's always good to know your way around the sky. If you spend a little time in the spring with a flashlight and star map, you can see them for yourself. And who couldn't use some sparkly in their life?

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

What a Little Starlight Can Do

2008-04-06T15:10:00.000-07:00

4/7/08 – 4/13/08
by C. Zaitz

When you look up at the night sky, you may have an emotional experience from the sheer beauty of the stars, but you are having a physical experience as well. Your eyes are taking in photons of light streaming from distant objects that are undergoing intense nuclear fusion. You gotta feel that!

I’m being playful, but the truth is, starlight packs a punch. We get a host of information from a little starlight. For example, when we see Betelgeuse in the eastward shoulder of Orion, it beams down faintly peach colored light to us. From this light we can deduce that Betelgeuse is a reddish star. Rigel, in the foot of Orion, shines bright white, almost blueish. Rigel is called a blue star. Each star has its own designer color.

The faint splash of color we detect with eyes can be amplified by a telescope. Through one, you can really tell that Betelgeuse is a red star. From that we can deduce its temperature, size, age and magnitude, since there is a relationship between all these characteristics. That’s a lot of information from a little starlight. If we had eyeballs shaped like prisms rather than marbles, we would be able to see even further into the starlight. The light would spread out into a spectrum- a rainbow of colors! Even better, we would see shadowy bars in the pretty band of color which tells us what the star is made of. It turns out that each element in nature has a fingerprint, and it shows up as dark lines in the colorful spectra of the star. The pattern identifies helium and carbon atoms as accurately as fingerprints identify people.

Once we know what the star is made of, know its color and therefore temperature and magnitude, we can reconstruct the star’s story from birth, through midlife, and even death. We know that stars like Betelgeuse are the “Elvis” stars; they burn brightest and hottest, but have short lives and die spectacular deaths. They only live millions of years, endure supernovae explosions, and end as pulsars or black holes. This will not happen to stars like our Sun. Smaller stars don’t have it in them to explode. The best they can hope for after a life of billions of years is to shed their outer layers and die a more peaceful, wasting away kind of death. Neither scenario is lucky for any planets orbiting, but both are inevitable. And all fates are written indelibly on the light we get from the star.

One even more powerful aspect to starlight is that it contains the information and history of the star from birth to death, like an endless movie. The second the star “turns on” by fusing atoms, its shines at the speed of light and on the light is a record of the star at that moment. When Betelgeuse dies its inevitable explosive death, we will have to wait the 400 plus years it will take for the light from the explosion to reach us. But it will be worth the wait. In the light from the explosion will be written the story of the creation of new elements; in the death of one star a story of future stars begins.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Gamma Ray Bursts

2008-03-28T06:43:00.000-07:00

3/30/08 – 4/5/08
by C. Zaitz

Even though we think of the sky as having countless stars, it turns out we can only see several hundred of them due to light pollution. In fact, our Milky Way galaxy contains several hundred billion stars. Only in very dark skies can you see anything beyond the Milky Way. Until recently, our sibling galaxies, the Triangulum and Andromeda, were the most distant objects visible to the naked eye, at a distance between two to three million light years. Recently, something even more distant was seen. Though it was only slightly brighter than the faintest stars visible to us, it was very distant, and very old, light. At a staggering seven and a half billion light years away it was still seen, if even for seconds, and if you knew where to look.

What was this fleeting image? It was a bright gamma ray burst. Gamma rays are the most energetic form of “light” or electromagnetic energy. Gamma rays are produced by all stars, but when a huge star dies, it often produces prodigious amounts of them as it collapses. Astronomers think that these gamma ray bursts we see all around us are the relics of the deaths of some of the very first stars formed in the early universe. When they die, they go out with a big flash.

The incredible thing about gamma bursts we detect is that they are all very distant, but incredibly powerful and bright, much brighter than anything known in the universe. But they are not bright in all directions. The reason they can show up looking so luminous after seven and a half billion years of travel in a stretching universe is because the energy is bundled into relatively narrow columns. The energy streams out like a beacon from a lighthouse and if earth happens to lie along its route through the universe, we will catch a glimpse of it.

Astronomers are very interested in spying gamma ray bursts because they could tell us more about the early universe. Bursts of high energy rays are very harmful to humans, so it’s providential that air stops gamma and x-rays from getting to us. But it also makes them hard to find. Currently NASA has a telescope in orbit called Swift that scans the universe for gamma ray bursts. The problem with gamma rays is that they are much more energetic than visible light waves, and they don’t give a very accurate image of what they are detecting. It’s like trying to draw a picture using a shotgun rather than a pencil. In order to pinpoint where the bursts come from, we have to coordinate space and earth telescopes. So astronomers on earth are tied into Swift’s detectors. Once the gamma rays are detected, astronomers know about it and telescopes on earth can search the same area for visible light, which sometimes accompanies the bursts. Once we find them, we can study the information the bursts give us and map them.

Even though the bursts aren’t around for long, they do give us an incredible look at our past, into a time where the universe was dominated by giant hydrogen stars and was much smaller than it is today. It’s a universe that is continually changing, and revealing itself to us a burst at a time.

Space Flight

2008-03-19T09:31:00.000-07:00

3/23/08 – 3/29/08
by C. Zaitz

Do you ever look at a bird and wonder how it flies? Or even better, wonder why you can’t? I wondered that the other day watching a hawk swooping and scooping air with its wings. I remembered Icarus of ancient mythology, the man who wore wings so he could fly. The higher he went, the more his giant wings made of wax and feathers melted from the high temperature of the sun.

In modern terms, the story makes no sense at all. First, if Icarus was confined to flying in the sky, he would have gotten colder, not warmer, as he flew higher. Second, if he had actually broken free and reached escape velocity by flapping his home-made wings, he would also have escaped the means of his flight- air pressure! Birds and planes rely on moving air to stay aloft. In space, there is no air, and thus no flight by wing. But the Greeks didn’t know this, and Icarus tumbled to earth with the melted wax and feathers all akimbo, a testament to man’s hubris and the punishment for flying too high.

Nature may not have gifted us with the ability to fly, but she did endow us with giant brains to figure out how to build devices that fly. In space, we have to use different principles to get around. One elegant solution was proposed long ago by Johannes Kepler. He noticed that comet tails were pushed back away from the sun by some force, and proposed that humans could catch that “breeze” to sail the solar system. Centuries later, the idea was proven true. Pressure from photons streaming from the sun can actually accelerate a thin, lightweight material, like a solar sail, to speeds that eventually could outrun our best traditional rockets. The key to their success, however, is patience.

If our traditional rockets are hares, solar sails are the tortoises of space travel. Since they are collecting ephemeral starlight, it takes a long time to get up a full head of steam to go fast. It’s a continual acceleration, unlike traditional rockets that blast off in a hurry but eventually run out of fuel. It may take a while to get “sailing”, but once it does, it will win the race!

Due to the nature of the slow acceleration, solar sails may not be suited for certain types of space travel. But there are so many benefits to using sunlight to propel a spacecraft that there are companies involved in creating materials and designs for commercial use. Launch rockets can be much smaller and more efficient to get the sails off the ground. The sails themselves don’t need fuel other than what they get from the sun. They can be cheaper, faster, easier, and create less waste.

It turns out that solar sails would need to get pretty close to the sun to go fast enough to travel large distances quickly. Like Icarus, they would swoop near the sun, but unlike him, they can use the energy and gravity to swing back out and go flying through the solar system. Perhaps one day, in the not so distant future, our night sky will be filled with sailing ships, off to distant worlds, using the “winds” of light and the wings of modern technology to fly.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Stars and Daffodils

2008-03-12T06:15:00.000-07:00

3/16/08 –3/22/08
by C. Zaitz

Just as the snow is melting to reveal the buds in the ground and on the trees, the winter night sky is drifting into the sunset, making way for the spring stars. We can still see the pretty set of constellations that make up the Winter Circle, but as we continue our orbit, the sun will be in front of those constellations in the coming months. Let’s take a last, lingering look at them.

I will miss the mighty Orion who watches over us on our quick trips between warm car and warm house. If you wink at him, he seems to twinkle back with his saucy grin and gleaming sword, his broad shoulders marked by the stars Betelgeuse and Bellatrix. The tilt of his belt leads the eye up to his nemesis, Taurus the Bull, off his western shoulder. Taurus’ bright eye is the star Aldebaran. It has a definite reddish tinge, as if Taurus was pawing the ground with his hoof and staring Orion down with an angry, bloodshot glare.

If we slide our eyes back to Orion’s belt and continue east, we find the bright blue-tinged beacon Sirius, in the constellation Canis Major, “the big dog.” Procyon is a star in the “little dog” Canis Minor above it, and still further above are the Gemini twins, Pollux and Castor. Above and to the west shines the bright star Capella, nestled in the five-sided constellation Auriga, who rides his chariot high over the winter sky carrying kid goats in his arms. Then back down to Aldebaran, “the follower” in Arabic, who seems to be following the ever delightful and lovely “Seven Sisters” or the Pleiades across the sky. It’s a familiar and comforting tableau; a collection of images that I look forward to seeing, even if it is a brief glimpse between destinations.

Springtime brings a changing scene. The sun lingers in the sky longer, so the stars come out later each night. Leo the Lion takes center stage not long after sunset. His stars look like a backward question mark with a little triangle marking his backside. Leo has a visitor this spring, the giant ringed planet Saturn. It will be drifting through the constellation, and its orbit will take it past the brightest star in Leo called Regulus. Regulus is a form of the Latin word Rex, which means king. I can really imagine a regal, burly, golden-maned lion, lying on his belly, paws curled under, watching over us all night long. Leo used to have a bushy tail, but it has long been severed to make a small constellation with the odd name, Coma Berenices. Coma means “hair,” and the tuft, rather than being the end of Leo, became the symbol of the crowning glory of Queen Berenice, wife of Ptolemy III of Egypt. She bobbed her hair so she could offer it to the goddess Aphrodite to ensure the safe return of her husband from battle. Whether it was her husband’s skill or her coiffured offering, he did return safely, and the locks were put in the sky.

The spring equinox is on March 20tht this year, and as it approaches we can simultaneously watch the march of the constellations and the unstoppable budding growth of new life.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

The Nature of Math

2008-03-06T04:57:00.000-08:00

3/9/08 – 3/16/08
by C. Zaitz

I’ve done many different things to make a living, but I never thought I’d be teaching math to anyone. Frankly, I wasn’t a big fan of math classes in school, though I’ve taken my share of them to get to the “good stuff” in physics and astronomy. I found some math teachers to be in a “mathy” tower, using a “mathy” language that was hard to understand. But I needed the tools of math, like poets need a language to do their art. Without math, physics and astronomy are only descriptive. Without it, we would never have been able to pin down the age of the universe, much less balance our checking accounts. So we have to do math.

I’m teaching it only temporarily, but already I have a new appreciation for the language of mathematics. Math never wanted to be in a tower, and never wanted to be a separate language. Math permeates everything. Nature has a deep friendship with math- it uses it to design itself. Leaves, seashells, flowers and pinecones all reflect specific mathematical relationships.

Not only did nature use math in its designs, mathematical relationships have allowed us to unlock the mystery behind why the planets orbit they way they do, to understand the relationship between a star’s distance and brightness, and even to figure out how fast we are moving on the surface of our planet, earth.

I’m not saying the language of math is always easy, but it’s not always hard either. Kepler’s laws tell us that the period of a planet is related only to its distance from the sun. That’s beautiful, but it requires finding squares and cubes of numbers. Thank goodness for calculators. To figure out how bright a star is, you can use the inverse-square law. That sounds complicated, but nature says the further you are from a source of light, it gets dimmer faster than you’d think. If you are twice as far away from a star as your neighboring alien, you will experience only a quarter as much light. The cool thing is that the law works for other things, like gravity and magnetism! The math is fairly simple, but it has far reaching import.

To find our speed standing still on the surface of the earth, we need to know how fast the earth is spinning. 2 pi divided by 24 hours times the radius of the earth yields around 1,000 mph! That’s how fast the ground under our feet is moving (at the equator.) And so are we. But it takes physics to explain why we aren’t flying off the planet if we’re traveling so fast. We call it inertia- we’ve all been going that fast since we were born, and the only way we’d feel it is if the earth sped up or slowed down abruptly. Math coupled with science is the most powerful tool we humans have.

For me, the beauty of math has been about how useful it is. But the Golden Ratio is a famous relationship between ratios, and its proportions are pleasing to us. Artists have used it throughout history in famous paintings. There have been philosophers who suggest that numbers have been our connection to the eternal. But I’m not that ambitious with math. If I can just get my students to figure out how high a flagpole is by measuring its shadow and using trigonometry, I’ll be happy.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Shot Down in Midair!

2008-02-27T09:43:00.000-08:00

3/2/08 - 3/8/08
by C. Zaitz

I’m not usually picky about why people get interested in science. But when my spouse came to me excited about the fact that the US Navy had shot down one of our own satellites with an unarmed missile launched from a ship out in the middle of the ocean, I felt smug. “Oh that’s nothing” said I. “We went to the moon six times, when we had to launch incredibly huge Saturn V rockets, figure out how to slip three astronauts into orbit, plunge two of them down to the surface to play, then scoot them back into a tiny aluminum foil launch vehicle, blast them off the moon, rendezvous with the orbiting vehicle, and have them burn themselves back into a tricky return to earth, with just the right trajectory to ensure they neither would skip off the atmosphere nor burn up in re-entry. No easy feat!” He rolled his eyes.

Meanwhile, I was just being cynical, and he was right, the destruction of the satellite was pretty interesting. Launching a missile from a rocking, moving ship is no easy feat, and hitting a fast-moving target is trickier still. Shooting down satellites is a controversial affair, due to China’s demolishing of a weather satellite last year. Nations get nervous when other nations send missiles shooting into the sky. But they did it, and so did we. How? Why?

The “why” of shooting down our own satellite was apparently due to the tank of hydrazine on board. Hydrazine is a toxic substance which once gained fame as being a product of a compound called Alar which was sprayed on apples to keep them on the tree to ripen them. The fear of this substance falling to earth as a cold slush, possibly killing or injuring people within 30 feet of it, was reason enough for the US to destroy it before reentry. The satellite had died, leaving no energy to keep the hydrazine warm, and hydrazine has a freezing point above water, so the threat of it surviving reentry as a half-frozen substance was real. Some say we did it just to see if it could be done, which leads up to the “how” of hitting a satellite moving at 17,000 km/second.

Breaking up a satellite before reentry poses problems. We have a pretty good understanding of orbits and trajectories of objects, once we know their mass and velocity. But when conditions like weather are uncertain, or change rapidly, problems of math and physics become very complex. So we use guiding systems which can track infrared, or heat signals. Unfortunately the satellite was dead so it wasn’t producing much heat. When China blew up one of its spy satellites, a cloud of debris was left behind in orbit that still exists and will remain for years, creating hazards for other orbiting bodies. We needed to hit the satellite in the hydrazine tank, which upon impact, even without explosives, would smash both the missile and the satellite, the pieces of which would reenter the atmosphere and burn up within weeks. And apparently that’s what happened.

Without knowing all the military details, but knowing that we are target practicing, as are other countries, I’m kind of glad that some of us are very interested in science.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Spelunking in Space

2008-02-20T10:39:00.000-08:00

2/24/08 – 3/1/08

by C. Zaitz

The planet Mars currently has a flotilla of spacecraft either orbiting or crawling on it. Interest has always been high when it comes to Mars, due to the strange landscape and its earth-like features, as well as the fact that it may have harbored life in its history. Recently, orbiting spacecraft have found holes the size of football fields in Mars’ landscape. After careful study, speleologists (scientists who study caves) say it is most likely that the holes are cave entrances, similar to caves on earth.

The fact that Mars has caves is interesting for a couple of reasons. First, caves can be safe havens for any life that might have taken hold on the planet. Mars is a harsh place, though it is the more earth-like than other planets. Its atmosphere is much thinner than earth’s and the weather is significantly meaner as a result. The thin atmosphere allows more killing solar radiation to reach the surface of Mars, even though it is farther away from the sun than we are. If life did form on Mars, it wouldn’t last long in the sizzle of the sun’s energy.

Caves provide protection from the more dangerous forms of radiation, and can also be shelter from raging wind and dust storms that often blast across the surface. Scientists think that caves are an excellent place to look for evidence of life on Mars. But even if life never did exist on Mars, there is another reason caves interest us. We humans have lived in caves for much of our history. They are perfect protection from fierce weather and from marauding neighbors. Though we don’t expect to have to hide from Martians, we will need protection from the elements on Mars that caves afford.

Scientists wonder how the caves formed. We know what can cause caves on earth. Falling rain water absorbs carbon dioxide. Water and carbon dioxide combine into a weak form of carbonic acid. The acid eats away rocks that are made of calcium carbonate, or limestone, and caves form as rock is dissolved and carried away in underground streams. Hollow chambers are left behind.

Caves on Mars may not be limestone, however. Mars has a very different atmosphere. It is mostly carbon dioxide, not nitrogen and oxygen. 95% of the air is poison to us, but would be very useful to plants. However, it isn’t clear that Mars has the right chemistry for the karst formations and caves we find on earth. So if the caves on Mars aren’t eroded limestone, what are they?

What Mars does have is volcanoes, like those on earth. The caves may be hollow lava tubes from ancient volcanoes. If it turns out that they are, they would provide excellent shelter for future spelunkers from earth. There might be magnificent chambers with sky lights and protected rooms for equipment and living space. These volcanic mansions might provide the right environment for exploring humans to survive on the foreign planet. Work is currently being done to design and build robots that could explore the caves on Mars, These robots could not only look for signs of past life, but could pave the way for future inhabitants to move in.

If you’d like to see Mars tonight, look to your southern sky for a bright, peach-colored light among the stars.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Spring on the Sun

2008-02-06T11:49:00.001-08:00

In January, solar scientists found their first robin of the sun’s spring. It was a sun spot, a little black dot on the visible surface of the sun. This spot was somehow different from the spots that had come before and from spots still on the sun. This spot had a different magnetic polarity, and was in a different place than previous spots. The news was clear: the long awaited first sign of Solar Cycle 24 had arrived. The sun’s winter, known as “solar minimum,” was midway through and the new solar cycle had begun.

The analogy of spring can only be taken so far. The sun does go through activity level changes, just like we do in different seasons, and these changes are related to the sun’s average temperature. But the sun doesn’t have seasons, just an ongoing 11 year cycle of magnetic storm activity. It turns out that the sun’s average temperature is lower during the multi-year lull in sunspot activity, and is greatest during the peak, called solar maximum.

Like a human going through puberty, the sun face is always changing, and its most noticeable feature is the scattering of spots on its face. The spots indicate areas where the turbulent and twisted magnetic field lines are organized and the normally bright plasma of the sun is slightly cooled and darkened. They appear darker against the bright background of hotter plasma, and that is what we see as a sunspot. Sunspots form often form in pairs or groups. They have a system of polarity, just like magnets have south and north poles. They form in somewhat predictable ways throughout an entire solar cycle. One of the clues scientists have been looking for is the switch in polarity of spots that form in in either the northern or southern hemisphere of the sun. This is one of the clues that indicate the official end of cycle 23 and the beginning of the new solar cycle.

Another clue is where the spots form on the sun. New solar cycles always begin with a high-latitude, reversed polarity sunspot. Old cycle spots form near the sun's equator. New cycle spots appear higher on the sun, around 30 degrees above the sun’s equator. The new spot was high and backward, indicating cycle 24 had begun. Now the sun’s activity would grow day by day over the course of the next 4-6 years.

Though we’ve turned the corner in the sun’s growing activity, it takes years to peak. Scientists predict that the upcoming solar cycle will be quite fierce when it peaks around 2011. What that means is that we will be vulnerable to the effects of solar storms, like power grid overloads causing power outages, cell phone and other communication interruptions due to satellite malfunction, GPS malfunctioning and air traffic problems. One pretty side effect caused by excess solar particles in our atmosphere is the Northern Lights. Scientists predict this solar cycle will be famous for Northern Light displays. We‘ll have to wait for solar max to see these spectacular Auroral displays, however. Meanwhile we can enjoy the heightening daily path of the sun, and that it lingers longer as the days go by. Spring is indeed coming.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Moon Dragon

2008-01-30T08:32:00.000-08:00

2/3/08 – 2/9/08
by C. Zaitz

Michigan winters can drag on and on, but soon there will be a real “dragon” in the sky; the moon-eating dragon we know as a lunar eclipse. The word eclipse is Greek, meaning “abandoning” or “forsaking.” On February 20th, around 9pm, you will see our lovely full moon abandon us as it is “eaten” by the shadow of the earth.

Lunar eclipses may seem rare, but they actually happen twice a year. We cannot see them if they happen during the day. The moon is always full during a lunar eclipse, and full moons are always opposite the sun. As the sun sets, a full moon rises, and as the sun rises, the full moon sets. That is why we see a lovely, huge, and sometimes reddish full moon rising at sunset. The color comes from light getting scattered as it passes through the atmosphere, but the apparent size is an optical illusion, due to the moon being close to the horizon.

A lunar eclipse happens when the moon passes through the earth’s shadow. As the moon orbits the earth once a month, there will be a time when the sun, earth and moon are in a line. The moon’s orbit around us is tipped about 5° from our orbit around the sun, so usually it passes above or below our shadow cast into space. Twice a year, the orbits cross so there is a chance for a lunar eclipse, but sometimes the moon may skim only part of the shadow. There will be such an eclipse in August, but it happens during our daytime so we will not be able to see it. The February eclipse is total and happens at night. This is our eclipse.

So here are the nitty-gritty’s of this eclipse. It begins with the moon moving into a penumbral shadow at 8:43 pm on February 20th. This will be hard to see, since penumbral shadows are light. The full eclipse begins at 10:01pm, and by 10:26 the entire moon will be eclipsed. This is when you can tell what color the eclipse is. Will it be reddish, like a rising full moon sometimes is, or will it be dark grey or brown? Sunlight passing through the atmosphere is responsible for the colors of an eclipse. Even though the moon is in our shadow, some sunlight does pass through our atmosphere and falls on the moon. Depending on how much the light is scattered, the colors can range to orangey red to dark, muddy brown. The more stuff in the atmosphere, (ex. volcanic ash) the darker the eclipse.

Eclipses were often seen as bad omens, especially solar eclipses, as if the sun and moon were being eaten or destroyed by dragons. People had different methods of scaring away the moon-eating dragon, such has making loud noises or praying. The best remedy for an eclipse, though, is time. By 10:51pm the total eclipse will be over, and the moon will be completely out of the earth’s shadow by 12:09am.Hopefully the skies will be clear so we can all enjoy this special event.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Messenger from Space

2008-01-22T18:59:00.001-08:00

A space craft called Messenger was launched back in August of 2004, en route to the smallest of the planets, Mercury. Tiny and dense, closest to the sun, and with a very ancient surface, Mercury should be a planet of great interest, but has been largely ignored for most of the era of solar system exploration.

Only one other spacecraft has visited Mercury. From 1974-1975, Mariner 10 flew by and sent back the pictures of the heavily cratered planet. The data showed a hot little world, burning and freezing alternately through its day and night. The surprising thing learned by Mariner about the closest planet to the sun is that there are spots that are colder and darker than many places in the solar system. One of the reasons we’re so curious about Mercury is the fact that it may harbor ice in a deep, dark polar crater. Ice on Mercury? How could this be?

All planets spin as they orbit the sun, and usually those spins have some harmonic resonance, thanks to gravity. This means that Mercury’s spin has slowed to the point that for every two times it orbits the sun, it rotates three times. A day on Mercury lasts about 176 earth days, baking the landscape for 88 days at a time from sunrise to sunset. The polar regions are the exception; they see little sun due to Mercury’s axis being nearly upright. It is deep craters in these polar regions that may harbor ice from a long past comet collisions or outgassing from Mercury itself.

Mercury’s curious spin has also led to the discovery that it may still have a molten core. Raw eggs tend to wobble more than hard boiled ones when they spin. That’s a good way to tell which ones have been cooked. Using that same principal, scientists have used radar to learn that Mercury wobbles more than a hard-boiled planet should wobble. This is surprising since tiny Mercury has had time to cool enough to solidify in the past 5 billion years. Its core is surprisingly large, as well. It makes up about 75% of the diameter of the planet. Such a large, dense core can’t be explained by compression, as it can in the cases of earth and Venus, so astronomers are curious to find out how Mercury accumulated such a great proportion of the solar system’s heaviest elements.

The Messenger spacecraft should be able to shed some light on these questions. The Mariner data was limited and up to now we have only had pictures of one side of Mercury. New pictures of before unseen parts of Mercury are streaming in, and soon this little world will tell us more about how the solar system formed.

There are many mysteries about Mercury, some of which Messenger will try to answer. But in the meantime, we can try to spy the tiny planet in the fierce glow of the sun. The evening sky of late January still has elusive Mercury visible very low in the west after sunset. In the morning, Venus and Jupiter will be together, shining brightly in the February pre-dawn sky. On February 4th, the waning crescent moon will join the party in the eastern morning sky.

Oceans of Life

2008-01-15T20:46:00.001-08:00

I love the Great Lakes, but I have a new crush- the ocean. I just returned from California and the Pacific. Over and over, like the ticking of an endless clock, waves crashed on the beach, bringing evidence of life from its depths and splaying them on the shore. The ocean seems timeless. But it wasn’t always here.

Early earth looked a lot different from the planet we know today. Scientists think that when earth first formed, there were no oceans. As the planet was forming, outgassing of the crust, along with constant meteor and comet bombardment, slowly built up the water vapor that condensed to form large bodies of water. These first oceans were not the blue beauties we are familiar with. We call earth the blue planet because of our azure skies and violet oceans, but when earth was young it had red skies and greenish-grey oceans. The thick early atmosphere was mostly carbon dioxide, and the water was a cloudy stew of water and other chemicals, with lots of salt from volcanic rock erosion and dissolving gasses from the air. Evidence suggests that this stew brought all the right ingredients together to create self-replicating matter, or life. The oldest life forms we know are found along the ancient ocean shores. Stromatolites are the fossil remnants of ancient communities of bacteria, and it seems that microbial life ruled the earth for most of its history, as far back as 3.5 billion years ago.

Now we find microbes in the violent heat and pressure of volcanic vents, and miles high in the harsh outer layers of our atmophere. Our bodies are crawling with them, and it is microbes that we search for as we send probes to other planets and moons.

The origin of microbes is not understood. Perhaps the earth supplied the right ingredients herself, or perhaps they flew in on a dirty comet from outer space. As we learn more about how life formed, we gain insight as to where to look for it in the solar system. And the evidence points to water.

We’re already crawling over the surface of Mars looking for signs of water. We find a lot of evidence for its existence, but as we drill into the rocks and look for fossils, none appear. We’ve also sent a probe to Saturn’s largest moon, Titan. The probe found no watery oceans or lakes in its quick descent and painless death on the moon’s cold, remote surface. Instead, it glimpsed rivers and streams of liquid hydrocarbons, which may be home to other, unfamiliar life forms, but nothing we can recognize.

Jupiter’s moon Europa also intrigues scientists, since it is completely enveloped in ice, has a thin surface layer of organic molecules, and may harbor an entire ocean of liquid water beneath the ice. Scientists are hard at work in Antarctica, perfecting tools that can drill through miles and miles of ice and submarines that can explore the depths. They hope to send a probe to Europa to drill beneath the ice and peer below this frozen shield. Though the mission is currently on hold at NASA, someday we will launch a vehicle to the oceans of Europa to see if they hold the promise of life. Even if they don’t, we will learn more about the incredible specialness of life here on our home planet.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

The Space Club, Part II

2008-01-07T20:04:00.000-08:00

1/13/08 – 1/19/08
by C.Zaitz

In our current climate of economic struggles, sometimes it’s hard to see the benefits of globalization. As Michiganders see jobs flying out the proverbial window to other countries, it’s hard to welcome the change. But it may be argued that the sharing of resources may be the only way to continue human and robot space exploration, and therefore help ensure the survival of our species.

Globalization is painful. Rich countries, superpowers even, may lose some of what they have to support countries that don’t have as much. Can a country, can a people, be that altruistic? I don’t know if compassion is anywhere in Darwin’s “survival of the fittest.” I don’t know that evolving the ability to share for a common good is necessarily going to help us survive as a species, much less get us to the moon or a nearby star. Maybe that’s why we don’t see aliens in Red Cross trucks patrolling our solar system.

The ability to launch space vehicles is the first level of space exploration. The second level is sending probes to other worlds. The Soviet Union sent the first landed spacecraft explorer to Venus in 1970. Prior to that, both the US and USSR had sent flybys to Mars and Venus, some successful, some not. In the 1990’s, Japan sent a probe to the moon, and then tried to send one to Mars. The first made it, the second didn’t. India also wants to join the probe club with a program to go to the moon and Mars. They plan on launching an unmanned moon mission in April of 2008. Meanwhile, nearly two thirds of the probes sent to Mars have failed. It turns out that sending probes to space is not the easiest thing to do. With a failure rate like that, it stands to reason that sending people to space is even more dangerous. So instead of secretly “cold-warring” our space programs, maybe our nations should share our resources. But can that happen? Perhaps the space race is fueled by competition, not compassion.

Level three of the space club, sending humans into orbit, has been reached by only three countries so far: China, Russia and the United States. The Soviet Union beat everyone in 1961, when Yuri Gagarin became the first human in orbit. The US, sweating bullets, followed by shooting John Glenn into orbit in 1962. China has recently gained entry to this level of the club by blasting Yang Liwei off to space in their own launch vehicle in 2003. This is a very elite club, but not as elite as the next level.

The twelve American men that walked on the moon from 1969-1972 are the only humans to step foot on extra-terrestrial ground. Many countries have a stated interest in going to that level, but the stakes, expense and danger to human life are so much greater than the other levels of the space club that I wonder if it will happen. Intense motivation is needed: perhaps motivation like a large asteroid heading our way, or a real visit from extraterrestrials. Or perhaps just the Helium-3 that we know the moon is loaded with. Whatever it takes, cooperation and compassion, or competition, I hope we can someday enjoy the next level of space exploration: stepping foot on another planet.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

The Space Club, Part I

2007-12-28T09:11:00.000-08:00

12/30/07 – 1/5/08

Have you ever wondered who is in the Space Club? The Space Club is the group of countries that can send things or people up into space. There are different levels of participation in a Space Club. If you have some money, expertise, and motivation, you can send stuff into space. If you have a lot of money, high-end expertise, and a lot of motivation, you can send people into space. Many countries have launched satellites into orbit for purposes of research; scientific, political or military. Sending stuff into space is the first level of space exploration.

The first satellite ever launched was the famous 200 lb. beeping “beachball,” Sputnik. The Soviet Union had launched not only the first orbiting satellite, but the first volley in what would be the increasingly heated space race between our two countries. A month later the Soviets struck again with Sputnik II, a heavier version containing not only a science payload, but Laika, a female dog. United States responded immediately: NASA was created and in 1958, America successfully launched Explorer I. Though the payload was smaller, it helped discover the radiation belts surrounding the earth. It was clear that satellites were the wave of the future. 1960 was a big year for satellite firsts; the first solar probe, first weather satellite, first navigation satellite, and the first communication satellite. That was nearly 50 years ago. What would we do without our satellites today?

From 1957 to 1962, the only members in the Space Club were the US and the USSR. Canada knocked on the door of the Club in 1962, though their Canadian-made Alouette satellite was launched by NASA. In 1967, the UK and Australia also joined in the satellite game, though they also used rockets from the US to get their payloads into space.

Japan entered level one in 1970, launching their first satellite, Osumi. China followed with their satellite Dong Chang Hong I, and a year later Britain launched a satellite from their own rocket. India and Germany launched satellites during the 1970’s but they used either US or USSR-made rockets. In 1980, India launched a satellite from their launch pad, using their own vehicle. The Club was growing. Today, there are seven satellite-launching capable entities: the USSR (now Russia and the Ukraine), The United States, The European Union (formerly France and Britain), Japan, China, India and Israel. North Korea and Iraq have also claimed orbital launches, but they remain unconfirmed. Many other countries are in the process of developing launch vehicles as well.

This list does not include collaboration between countries that make their own satellites and countries that have the vehicles to launch them. The ability to launch vehicles into space is the first step in an expensive and dangerous club, but one that leads to the exploration of space. We’ll explore the next levels of the exclusive Space Club next week.

Meanwhile, enjoy the view of ruddy-faced Mars in the night sky. January is the best month to see Mars as he outshines the brightest star in the night sky, Sirius. Look up high in the sky above and to the east of Orion. You can also watch Venus and Jupiter edging closer to each other in the pre-dawn sky. Look to the East as the sun begins to make its presence known.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

The Expanding Nothingness Part II

2007-12-04T20:12:00.000-08:00

12/9/07 – 12/15/07

In science, knowledge and research usually expand our view of things. But recent discoveries in cosmology have shrunk our known universe by expanding the unknown universe. In the late 80’s and 90’s, it seemed that we were closing in on some important numbers, like how old the universe is, and how fast it is expanding. By figuring out how fast it’s expanding, we could figure out how long ago it had started expanding, thus determining its age. By this method we had narrowed the age of the universe down to somewhere between 10-20 billion years. Ballpark figure or not, it’s still a staggeringly huge number. Now we know it’s most likely 13.7 billion years. Very old. But it’s a number.

Finding the universal expansion rate required knowing how much stuff there was in the universe, which was thrown into doubt by the discovery of dark matter. We tossed the presumed amount of this mysterious, invisible and as of yet undetected dark matter into the equation, and came up with an expansion rate of somewhere between 70-75 km/sec/Mpc. That means that for every 3.2 million light years of distance, galaxies are receding at 75 km/sec. Though the expansion rate is fast, the funny part of the story is that it’s changing, and it’s not slowing down.

Cosmologists say that the universe is expanding faster than ever. But when questioned as to what is expanding, they say it’s space, which contains about 4% stuff we see, and 96% dark energy and dark matter. Dark matter is a mysterious, theoretical and undetected substance that defies our understanding. And what is speeding up the expansion? Dark energy, a mysterious, theoretical and undetected force that defies our understanding. Swell. So instead of expanding our knowledge base, research has introduced two new facets of the universe that are dark, undetected, and have an almost mythical, unknowable nature. The ultimate fate of the universe, once seemingly around the corner of our understanding, recedes into the distance.

So where do these ideas come from? And what does it do to our understanding of the universe? The idea of dark energy was introduced to explain an observation that was otherwise unexplainable. By looking at a certain type of supernovae (the spectacular explosions accompanying the death of a star) astronomers estimated how far away they are. By using these supernovae as standard candles, they found that, instead of slowing down as expected, the expansion of the universe was actually speeding up. It was quite a surprise, and immediately demanded explanations and theories. Thence came dark energy, a force manufactured to explain the quickening of the spreading out of the stuff that was not really known. Once again, our understanding recedes into the distance.

Do we feel the thinness of the ice of knowledge yet? It seems that we are continually breaking through, falling into the dark chasm of the icy water of the unknown. But that’s the exciting part about science: the cold, wet realization that you’ve got to come up with new ideas to explain the questions that arise from observations. Currently, cosmology is a field of science that demands careful, methodical study, but also demands creative, almost crazy thinking. It’s not for the faint of heart. But the rewards are immeasurable.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

The Expanding Nothingness Part I

2007-11-25T13:45:00.001-08:00

11/25 - 12/1
by C. Zaitz

In the late 1980's I learned there was a good possibility that we could know the fate of the Universe. There were three choices, and cosmologists were hard at work narrowing it down to one. We knew the Universe was expanding. In 1929, Edwin Hubble had made that clear by showing us the red shifts of countless galaxies. Red shifts meant they were receding, and the farther away they were, the faster they were going. Hubble deduced this meant that space was expanding.

Armed with this information, cosmologists ran the expansion back like a movie to figure out how it began. That’s where the Big Bang Theory came from. And then they ran it forward to see how it would end. Knowing the fate of the Universe seemed within reach. But the fate of the Universe depended on how much stuff there was in it. If there was a lot of mass, gravity would stop the expansion and bring everything together into a Big Crunch. If there was not enough mass, the Universe would expand forever, growing dark and cold into a Big Freeze. Some thought that one day the Big Bang might come together in a Big Bounce, which was an elegant extension of the Big Crunch, wherein the Universe would oscillate forever.

It turns out that the visible Universe, namely the stars that make up galaxies, has only a small percentage of the mass needed for such a fate. The Universe was too light for a Big Crunch or Bounce, and it looked like we were headed toward the Big Freeze. But this is not a happy ending, so cosmologists looked around the Universe for more mass.

We live in the Milky Way, a spiral galaxy home to hundreds of billions of stars. It looks like a big spinning pinwheel. The Milky Way is spinning so fast that the stars in the arms of the galaxy should have wound up around the center a long time ago, like cotton candy winding around a paper cone. But they didn’t; our Milky Way has spun about 20 times in the past 5 billion years and it still looks as pinwheely as it did as a baby galaxy. This doesn’t make sense with the amount of mass calculated from all the stars. There must be mass that we can’t see. Aha!

Cosmologists call it dark matter, and though it is invisible and nothing like regular matter, it accounts for most of the mass in the Universe. The galaxies are embedded in it, and it shapes spacetime. Its existence has changed how we think about the fate of the Universe. In Greek mythology, the three Fates were Clotho, the spinner of the thread of life, Lachesis who measured the thread of fate, and Atropos, who cut the thread to end a life. As the universe spins out its history, it’s easiest to study the past and present. The thread of information left over from the Big Bang is fairly strong. When we look to Atropos, to the end of the Universe, things have gotten cloudy. The fate of the Universe has become uncertain. As we struggle to understand the nature of dark matter, hopefully the answers will become clearer. But there is another piece to the puzzle, an even more enigmatic discovery: dark energy. To be continued…

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

The Helium Rush

2007-11-13T19:41:00.000-08:00

11/20 - 11/27

by C. Zaitz

I was five years old when Apollo 17 astronauts Gene Cernan and Harrison Schmidt took their last steps on the surface of the moon. They paused to place a plaque that read, “Here man completed his first explorations of the Moon, December 1972.” We never imagined that it would be the final exploration of the moon, but 35 years later, we seem completely earth-bound. The twelve brave astronauts who traversed the dust of the lunar maria have no successors as of yet.

Noise is beginning to be made, however, of a new race to the moon. In the late 60’s, the main concern for space travel was political. The Soviet Union had launched the first satellite into space, that famous beeping sphere called Sputnik, and had also beaten us into orbit. The only way to save face in the world domination game was to land men safely on the moon, which we did six times. The threat eventually passed, the cold war ended and the motivation to go to the moon lay sleeping for decades.

New motivation has risen, and has shifted to economics. So what’s on the moon that anyone would want? We know the dusty surface is pulverized regolith, mostly a basalt powder blasted out of craters from the moon’s pummeled surface. We have lots of basalt here on earth from volcanoes. But the moon harbors a mineral called ilmenite, which is iron titanium oxide. It’s not important for its own chemical make-up, but for its ability to retain helium-3, a product of the solar wind. The sun streams high energy particles in all directions. Earth’s magnetic field deflects most of this material, but the moon has no such deflector. The particles slam into the moon and are trapped in ilmenite. It is said that 220 pounds of the lunar rock could yield $140 million worth of helium-3. At $40,000 per ounce, helium -3 would be 26 times more expensive than platinum.

But what is it? Helium-3 is a lighter form of regular helium, the stuff that makes balloons float. Helium-3 is valuable because it could provide a cheaper, safer and more efficient way to produce energy. Nuclear power plants currently use nuclear fission to break apart heavy atoms like uranium to get energy, but they leave behind toxic nuclear waste. Fusing atoms creates much less waste, and is more efficient. Unfortunately, there is very little helium-3 on earth to fuse.

When President Bush announced his decision to send us back to the Moon by 2018, a committee was formed to research the feasibility of such a project. Sitting on the committee were none other than Neil Armstrong and Harrison Schmitt, the Apollo 17 astronaut, one of the biggest proponents of mining the moon for helium-3. The committee built a small reactor to test the theories of the helium-3 fusion, and it produced energy. However, it will most likely take decades to produce and test commercial reactors. Meanwhile, we aren’t the only country interested in the moon’s supply of helium-3. China, Russia and India all have sights on the supply, and are working toward getting there first. It seems the race is heating up.

Plans are underway to build the new Apollo-like rockets to get us back to Luna, but unless we hurry, we may have to wait in line to plant an American flag on the moon once again.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Hairy Stars

2007-11-07T03:28:00.000-08:00

11/12/07 – 11/19/07
by C. Zaitz

We have a comet in the sky! By now you’ve heard that Comet Holmes has exploded into a naked eye comet and has been haunting the northeastern sky near the constellation Perseus for weeks now. Even in ancient times, comets have appeared in the sky, only to disappear weeks later, leaving folks wondering what they were. Labeled “hairy stars” due to their fuzzy appearance in the sky, the Latin word “coma” literally means “hair” and this comet has quite a head of it! Now said to be over 7 times the diameter of Jupiter, the coma of comet Holmes is an amazingly giant, diffuse ball of fluorescent gas and dust, visible to the naked eye.

Comets are made of ice, gases, and dust. The nucleus, which is the main part of a comet, can be a mile or several miles in diameter, but it is the coma, or the cloud of gas and dust surrounding the nucleus, that becomes huge as the ice melts. The melting is more like dry ice turning straight into a gas rather than an ice cube melting into a puddle. As the gas is released, dust grains are also released, and depending on their size, they will travel a certain distance from the nucleus, puffing out into the coma and tail. Comet Holmes has had more of an explosion than a mere melting, it seems, as it has grown an enormous coma. It doesn’t have much of a tail, though. Usually comets grow two tails, one made of gases and the other made of heavier dust grains. The comet drags the tails around the sun, but they are always driven away from the comet by the pressure of the sun’s own radiation, so no matter where the comet is going, the tails always point away from the sun. Comet Holmes is too far from the sun to grow much of a tail.

Many comets come from a distant place in our solar system, beyond any of the known planets. Far beyond the orbit of Pluto, the Oort cloud is thought to extend halfway to the closest star to us and is home to trillions of comets. Some comets live closer to us. Comet Holmes orbits every 7 years, and was discovered in 1892. Orbiting between Mars and Jupiter, it usually passes unnoticed. This time around, some of the ice must have broken off like our melting glaciers of earth, releasing an enormous amount of dust and growing its huge coma. We get to enjoy its brilliant hairy appearance for as long as it continues to glow.

People are often surprised that comets can be seen night after night, because they associate them with shooting stars, or meteors. It’s a common mistake, most likely because of their streamlined, zippy appearance. With the tail blasting out, looking like a rocket to Mars, comets definitely are the speedsters of the solar system. They do move swiftly, clocking over 100,000 mph, but are so distant that you cannot detect their motion over the course of one night. They seem to hang in the sky for weeks, giving us a view of the mysterious, changing nature of the universe, or at least the solar system. Soon comet Holmes will die down and once again become an icy, dirty snowball, one of many silent, small members of our solar system.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

No Glass Ceiling

2007-10-29T19:31:00.000-07:00

11/4/07 – 11/10/07

by C. Zaitz

When I was visiting my parents in Rochester, NY, I saw a headline in the local paper about Pamela Melroy, a retired US Air Force Colonel. She was a local girl, one of the very few female pilots who had made it successfully through the astronaut training program. She is only the second commander of the Space Shuttle, and most likely the last.

Melroy got degrees in physics and astronomy from Wellesley College, a female-only institution patterned after Mount Holyoke Seminary (College in 1893), the first of seven famous colleges for women. These so-called “seven sisters” were chartered in the late 1800s when women had little opportunity for the excellent education that men had from the so-called Ivy League schools. Currently only five of the seven are still private women’s colleges, but those five still strive to give women an excellent education and the self confidence of succeeding in often male-dominated fields. Apparently it worked for Pamela Melroy. As she herself said in a commencement address, “The environment gives women a place to dream without being restricted or blinded by culturally generated limits.”

One of a very select group of shuttle pilots, Melroy is definitely a minority at NASA. She is one of 18 female astronauts out of a group of 91. Strangely, and for the first time ever, she is one of the two women in charge on the current mission. While she commands the space shuttle Discovery, her colleague Peggy Whitson will serve as the Station Commander on board the International Space Station. The fact that for the first time in the 50 year history of spaceflight that two women will be commanding is a rare coincidence, NASA says. The fact is, Melroy is most likely the last shuttle commander, and the only female test pilot left at NASA.

The shuttle’s days are numbered. NASA is phasing out the shuttle in favor of an updated launch vehicle, Orion. From the first flight of the Columbia in 1981 to the recent launch of Discovery, the Space Transportation System, NASA’s official handle for the shuttle, has been an astoundingly reliable workhorse of our space program. Of the120 flights of the entire fleet, Discovery has flown 33 of them. However, the loss of even one vehicle means the loss of the astronauts within it. Out of the original five shuttles built, only three remain. Considering the danger of launching and landing such an unwieldy vehicle, the statistics of 2% death rate per astronaut-flight seem like a small risk. But each one of those twelve deaths in the two shuttle disasters was painful and very difficult to overcome.

It is the tragedy of loss that spurs us on to build a bigger and better space exploration vehicle. And it is the spirit of adventure and the willingness to risk her life that allows people like Pam Melroy to follow her dream against the odds to become an astronaut, and to command the Discovery.

The last trips planned for the remaining shuttles are in 2010. After that, Orion will take over for the return to the Moon and possibly one day to Mars. Astronaut tryouts are coming, and astronaut school begins in 2009, in case you want to clear your calendar!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Core Issues

2007-10-24T03:34:00.000-07:00

10/28 - 11/3
by C. Zaitz

I look up a lot, but right now my mind is on core issues, like what is at the core of our home planet. There has been conflict about this very question in the past. In the 17th century, the famous comet hunter Edmund Halley had a theory that the earth was actually hollow, and thought the core was luminous and filled with gas. Where did he get such a bright idea? From none other than his contemporary scientist, Isaac Newton. Newton had calculated the density of the earth, and had found that the center of the earth must be at least twice as dense as the surface. But he also calculated the density of the moon, and mistakenly found it much denser than the earth. Since there was no reason to suggest that the moon was made so much differently than the earth, Edmund Halley sought to explain the difference by suggesting that four-ninths of the earth was empty. He imagined the inner sphere inhabited by throngs of beings, as were all the planets of the solar system. He even had a portrait painted of himself as Astronomer Royal with a diagram of his hollow- shelled earth, forever immortalized. Luckily his comet became so famous that for the most part people have forgotten this aspect of his work. Some folks, however, took the idea of the hollow earth and elaborated, so vestiges of the theory still haunt society today.

Rather than being hollow at its core, Earth is actually quite dense. It is a rocky conglomeration, like the other inner planets, very close in nature to its sister, Venus. Earth and Venus are like twins, separated at birth. Venus has a different disposition than her sister. She’s very hot, with an atmosphere that would crush and melt any visiting earthlings. Earth is more subdued, and more gracious to the living beings that inhabit her outer skin.

Underneath the harsh exterior, Venus has a dense metallic core, similar to earth, with perhaps a liquid outer core surrounding it. On earth, this rotating liquid core generates our strong magnetic field, allowing us to navigate with compasses and protecting us from killing radiation from the sun. Venus seems to be lacking a magnetic field, though her makeup is similar to the earth. The difference may lie in the fact that Venus rotates slowly, and retrograde to the rest of the solar system. The slow rotation may not provide enough energy to generate a magnetic field.

So how do we know about the cores of the planets? On earth, no one has been more than 7.5 miles down. That’s not very far, considering that it would be a journey of 4,000 miles to reach the center. Most of what we know about the interior of the earth comes from seismic data. We can measure how fast earthquake shock waves travel through different materials, and estimate the depth and make-up of earth’s layers. That is how we found out about the liquid outer core of the earth. Seismic data doesn’t tell us everything, but it does rule out a society of folks living in a hollow earth.

As you ponder life at the center of a planet, you can spy Venus by looking toward the sunrise. She’ll be winking at you from the south eastern morning sky.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Halloween

2007-10-14T19:49:00.000-07:00

10/21/07 – 10/28/07
by C. Zaitz

Halloween is a great night, isn’t it? Modern culture has taken our holiday to new heights of materialism, but if we can get back to its former meaning, it can be a great night for communities. October often has cool, clear nights, great for viewing the sky. On Halloween, kids and parents are out, neighborhoods are active, and the sky darkens early. What better time to look up and notice the evocative sky? It can bring us together and remind us of our connection to the seasons and the sky above.

Halloween is the last of four special days of the year known as the cross-quarter days. These days are the midway points between the better known solstices and equinoxes. As the earth slips around the sun, it changes its tilt with respect to it. At this time of year, the earth is changing its orientation daily. The northern hemisphere leans toward the sun in the summer, but in winter it leans away from it. The leaning causes a big difference in weather. The sun doesn’t heat us as well now that we aren’t getting direct rays. The sun also makes a short path in the sky, which means it’s not in the sky as long. Shorter days and indirect rays cause winter here in the north. That, and that alone, causes our seasons.

We celebrated the first day of fall, the autumn equinox, on September 23rd this year, and winter begins officially on December 22nd, the winter solstice. But for many of us, fall doesn’t really get under way until October. Perhaps that’s why we have retained the celebration of the cross quarter day in this one season. Seasons on earth don’t really kick in until the earth itself is on board. It takes time for heating and cooling to take place, just like in the air conditioning and heating in your car. Our seasons are delayed so much that it seems like the cross-quarter days are really the "first days" of the season. It’s not a great leap to imagine October 31st as the end of the growing – harvest season. What better New Year’s Eve party than Halloween?

I like Halloween for one reason and one reason only: people are outside and looking at the sky. Ok, maybe that and the leftover candy! Halloween at the Zaitz house includes the traditional bowl of candy for trick-or-treaters, but also my trusty 4” Astroscan telescope, showing any and all comers a view of the sky. This year the moon will be past full by Halloween, so not very helpful in lighting our evening activities, but Jupiter will be shining powerfully in the southwest and showing its children- four of its tiny moons, visible through a telescope.

We have lost touch in our modern culture with most of the cross quarter days. The others are Groundhog’s Day in February, May Day, and Lammas day, in August. Halloween is by far the most famous of the cross quarter days, and the most fun. Halloween celebrations have lasted through the centuries. Pre-Christian Celts celebrated Samhain (“sau-wen”) as the end of the year/beginning of a new year. The association with death and dying has been preserved through the centuries in our modern celebration of Halloween. It’s the time of the year we can easily be in touch with the rhythms of the earth.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Hot Hot Hot

2007-10-08T20:18:00.000-07:00

From the nuclear furnace at the core to the extremely hot plasma of its corona, the sun is the definition of hot! Far from the “giant ball of fire” we learned about in first grade, it is more accurately described as a sphere of plasma. Plasma is not a common everyday household item. You know of plasma- lightning is an example. If you’ve seen the northern lights, you are seeing a colorful display of plasma. Plasma is hot, ionized gas.

The sun has plenty of plasma. Like other stars, it supports itself from the crushing weight of gravity by fusing hydrogen atoms at its core. Pressures and temperatures being what they are at the core of the sun, atoms that normally don’t like being all that close will overcome their repulsion and fuse together. In this process, they release prodigious amounts of energy.

It was actually the icon scientist Albert Einstein who quantified exactly how much energy in his uber-famous equation, E=mc (squared). In English, this equation says that you can get an enormous amount of energy out of a little bit of mass. The variable “c” stands for the speed of light, which is a pretty big quantity. And if you square it, it becomes super big. No matter how small your mass (m), if you multiply it by the speed of light squared, you have a very big number, which is E, the amount of energy you can get from it. This idea opened up a world of hurt.

Here on earth, we have harnessed the power of fission to unleash energy from an atom. We have figured out how to take a heavy element like uranium and “fission” it by tossing a neutron at it. By splitting a very heavy element like Uranium, we can release exorbitant amounts of energy. Unfortunately a by-product of the process is radioactive material, called “waste” due to its unpleasantness and difficulty of disposal without harm to humans. We use our knowledge for good, in our nuclear power plants, but also for bad, in our nuclear bombs. Hiroshima and Nagasaki both felt the power of unleashed of nuclear fission.

Stars don’t “fiss,” they fuse. Stars release energy through nuclear fusion. The sun isn’t filled with heavy elements like uranium. All they have at their disposal to keep alive is hydrogen. Luckily the universe decided that elements lighter than iron would be better off if they fused, rather than fissioned. The sun has lots of light elements to fuse, and it does so at will. This releases the life-giving energy that we receive some 93 million miles away. We seem to have a very advantageous spot in the solar system.

Think about toasting marshmallows on a stick. When you get too close to the fire, you end up with a crispy marshmallow that you have to snuff before popping into your mouth to hear the sizzle of your own saliva. If the marshmallow is too far from the fire, it remains cool and solid, not the most pleasing form of the food product. I find it both fascinating and reassuring that the earth maintains the place of the well-browned marshmallow. Not too close to the nuclear furnace, and not too far. It’s just right to keep us comfortable. So even with changing temperatures and seasons, we can be grateful for our place in space.

Astarte and... Astarte

2007-10-07T19:59:00.000-07:00

From Sunday morning, October 7th, 7am-ish.

The "too-poetical" poem of Edgar Allan Poe,

Ulalume

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere -
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year:
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir -
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through and alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul -
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll -
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole -
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere -
Our memories were treacherous and sere, -
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!) -
We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here) -
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn -
As the star-dials hinted of morn -
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn -
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said: "She is warmer than Dian;
She rolls through an ether of sighs -
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies -
To the Lethean peace of the skies -
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes -
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said: "Sadly this star I mistrust -
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:
Ah, hasten! -ah, let us not linger!
Ah, fly! -let us fly! -for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust -
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust -
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied: "This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendour is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty tonight! -
See! -it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright -
We safely may trust to a gleaming,
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom -
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb -
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said: "What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied: "Ulalume -Ulalume -
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere -
As the leaves that were withering and sere;
And I cried: "It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed -I journeyed down here! -
That I brought a dread burden down here -
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon hath tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber -
This misty mid region of Weir -
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

Candle In The Dark

2007-09-26T11:59:00.000-07:00

9/30/07 – 10/6/07
by C. Zaitz

Do you remember Carl Sagan? Back in the early 1980’s, Carl Sagan was the voice of science. Scientists envied him for his fame and comedians imitated him due to his juicy enunciation of words like “nucleosynthesis” and “billions.” I was an impressionable 13 year old when Cosmos: A Personal Voyage first aired. Cosmos was Sagan’s illustrated ode to science and scientific thinking. Not only did he reveal the latest findings in astronomy, he discussed everything from the origins of life to the prospect of space travel, touching on biology, chemistry and physics. He framed phenomenon on earth within the larger context of the entire universe.

Who can forget the giant “Cosmic Calendar?” Sagan fit the whole history of the universe into one year, starting with the Big Bang on New Year’s Day. Humans started walking upright around 9:30 pm on December 31st, the very last day of that same year. Recorded human history begins at 11:59:45 pm. The voyage of Christopher Columbus happened on the very last second before midnight. Sagan reminded us that everything that has ever happened, everyone we’ve ever known about, any deeds ever done, occured in the last minutes, the last seconds of the history of the universe.

Later in life Sagan wrote a book called, The Demon Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark. He wrote extensively about the importance of skepticism and scientific thinking in our daily lives. He rallied against the influence of pseudosciences like astrology and ufology, while being a strong proponent of the search for extraterrestrial life. Sagan warned against sloppy thinking, and came up with the “Baloney Detector,” useful ideas to keep in mind when forming ideas. “Try not to get overly attached to a hypothesis just because it's yours.” ”Ask whether the hypothesis can, at least in principle, be falsified. (Can it be tested?) Can others duplicate the experiment and get the same result?” And Occam's razor has been used in countless debates: “if there are two hypotheses that explain the data equally well, choose the simpler.” Why go supernatural when something can be explained by natural laws of science?

Carl Sagan died in 1996 of a rare bone cancer, but his legacy lives on. This fall the Henry Ford Community College Planetarium is showing each of the 13 episodes of Cosmos: A Personal Voyage on Fridays at 11:15 am. The doors are open to anyone interested, and there is no admission fee. The episodes are updated with new graphics and commentary by Sagan and his widow Ann Druyan. The ideas and words of Carl Sagan speak to us over the decades. Who can forget his famous quotes, “We are all star stuff” and, “We are a way for the universe to know itself.” It’s hard to leave the planetarium not feeling a little richer, a little wiser for having thought about our place in the great scheme of things. Even if you don’t agree with every thing he says, Carl Sagan was nothing if not an inspirational educator and popularizer of science. He made the process of scientific inquiry interesting, and he gave us perspective by describing the grandeur and curious nature of the universe and our local part of it.

Music to My Ears

2007-09-18T21:51:00.000-07:00

9/23/07 - 9/29-07
by C. Zaitz

I love music. I’ve studied it, I listen to it, and I play it. I started piano lessons when I was five and after years of practice I can make music that sounds good to my ears. But the sweetest sound I’ve heard in a long time came from a human voice, and it made this music, “My daughter never liked science before, but now she likes it.” This was from a mom I met at Parent’s Night in the girl’s school where I’m teaching.

I’m still flying from hearing those words. There’s nothing that makes an educator feel better about the difficulty of teaching many classes every day, the long hours of correcting labs, grading tests, and crafting lessons, than to hear that they made a difference. It makes me very happy when young teen-aged girls, just entering puberty, are still excited about science. When I hear that the older girls in their later teens are still curious and interested, it makes me feel even better. We often lose girls in science at that age, and I think one reason is that they don’t know why it’s important. But I tell them why. It teaches them how to think. And that takes practice.

The first time you ice skate can be frustrating, as can your first karate lesson, or your first attempt at driving a stick shift. They all require repetitive practice. So does scientific thinking, but many of us don’t naturally tend toward it. We have to practice our thinking, our language, and our ability to reason. We all have habits, but to make science a habit requires the same kind of practice that cooking or playing football does.

So how can we practice scientific thinking? By reading a lot. Scientific questions come from observations and prior knowledge, gathered by humans since they first started painting bison hunts on cave walls. We have to know stuff to ask questions about it. Books and periodicals are important, but we get a lot of information from on-line sources. On-line science news can be convenient, but we run the same risk there that we run by getting our news from TV, and that is getting information from biased or non-reputable sources. Which leads me to the subject of critical thinking.

We should think critically about what we read and hear and see. Critical thinking doesn’t mean to “criticize,” it means to be discerning and evaluate the information we get. If we start with reputable sources, perhaps do a little research before we read, we can avoid wasting our time reading information that is not based in science, meaning based on facts or testable information.

Believing what someone tells us just because they speak the loudest isn’t using sound judgment, and certainly hasn’t done our nation much good in recent history. We can all think for ourselves, and yet sometime we choose not to. Sometimes we buy into other people’s ideas because they sound good to us or fit in with our belief system. I am as guilty of it as anyone, but I know what it takes to think critically and to avoid our personal biases and prejudices: practice, practice, practice. And that’s how you can get to Carnegie Hall, or to Mars!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

All Things Being Equal

2007-09-11T18:30:00.000-07:00

September is one of those transitional months. School–aged kids know instinctively what fall means, and now many Michigan adults find themselves school bound for work related retraining. Even at work the feeling can change; no more “sliding out” early on Friday afternoon to find a favorite beach or an empty picnic table. There’s a palpable crispness in the air, a curt bustle in our motions, as if we still had to gather in the crops before the first hard frost.

The equinox approaches. Day submits to the creeping onslaught of night. Practically speaking, we have to walk the dog before it gets dark. We don’t linger outside talking to neighbors as late. The balance of power between light and dark is coming to equilibrium. We could relax in the abatement of burning rays from the sun and enjoy the lessening humidity and moderate temperatures, but we know what comes next: the utter and complete domination of a Michigan Winter. Can you hear the distant bells tolling for our dying summer?

Equilibrium of night and day means that the stars appear earlier. You don’t have to stay up very late to see the mighty planet Jupiter hovering low in the western twilight sky, or to see Princess Andromeda and her hero Perseus playing out their ancient story in the deepening night. So let’s quell those morose tolling bells and enjoy the equinox, for it brings some of the most interesting constellations and the biggest of planets to the early evening sky. Plus, fall in temperate Michigan is nothing to sneeze at! (Unless you suffer from allergies as many of us do!)

I like to think of autumn “advancing” because that word reflects what’s happening in the sky. The Sun, positioned against a background of very distant stars, seems to be marching eastward little by little. We can’t see this happening because the blue day sky prevents us from seeing the stars and the sun at the same time. The only change we can detect is the advancing of sunset, minutes earlier each day. If we could watch the process from space, we would see our home planet plodding along its normal course around the sun.

One result of this plodding motion is that the constellations that have been with us all summer are now getting lost in the glow of the sun. It also means that the star patterns that you’ve seen in the sultry summer mornings are now visible much earlier in the evening. Instead of the Summer Triangle adorning the sky all night, it will be fading not long after sunset. And the glorious and familiar constellations of fall, our friends Perseus and Andromeda, Cassiopeia and Pegasus, have migrated from early morning apparitions to familiar players in our evening heavenly tableau.

All things being equal, we can enjoy the moderate temperatures, the early evening sunsets, and the convenient timing of the crisp and clear fall night sky. The equinox occurs on September 23rd, the day when the sun rises due east, sets due west, lingers in the sky for half of the earth’s rotation, and goes down in time for us to take a break from the bustle of fall and enjoy the twinkle of the celestial bodies in the autumn sky.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

All Over the Map

2007-09-06T20:43:00.001-07:00

9/9/07 - 9/15/07
by C. Zaitz

I write about astronomy. At least, that’s what I say I’m writing about. But I tend to be all over the map with my topics. I’ve talked about Jamestown, Dinosaurs, Snorkeling and even the weather. It’s not because I have Attention Deficit Disorder, it’s because Astronomy can be all over the map too.

Astronomy encompasses a lot of other sciences, leading down a road that passes through towns like physics, chemistry, biology, geology, and it even goes to territories like philosophy and religion. Forgive my extended metaphor, but astronomy is rather like a path or a trail that leads to many different places. Of course, the vehicle driving astronomy is curiosity, the same thing that drives all the sciences. Curiosity, and the desire to make our lives better and easier.

Take Google Earth, for example. You can download a program to your computer that allows you to zoom in on practically any place on earth, as if you were orbiting our planet and had an amazing zoom lens that allowed you to see, in some cases, who planted a new tree or where dirty water is pouring into our streams. That sounds like science fiction, but it’s not; it’s easy, fun and useful as well. Curious to see what Madagascar looks like? You can, and not just a colored blotch on a world map; you can see the actual landscape from a bird’s eye view. You can visit the Coliseum in Rome, and see the four presidents at Mount Rushmore. And thanks to scientific technology, it’s available to anyone who can use a computer.

Scientific knowledge allows us to keep satellites in space to take the pictures, and it allows us to understand optics and information storage. Scientific inquiry allows us to use quantum tunneling in our electronics, and allows the global sharing of information. It’s pretty incredible when you think about it. But some people may feel like it’s an invasion of privacy, or feel the Orwellian “Big Brother is watching us” uneasiness.

Perhaps it’s our ability, or maybe our need, to be curious and question things that is important, especially now when it’s difficult to accept what science is telling us about global warming and climate change. We have the data that tells us that our world is changing. Information is coming to us from all over the map. But we cannot forget that it is ultimately our interpretation of information that matters.

Interpretation comes from our background knowledge, such as from our education, our experiences, and what we’ve heard, read, or seen on TV. And that can truly be a mish mosh of ideas, of reality and faux reality. But the more we get information from reputable sources, from primary and authoritative sources, the better informed we can be in our interpretations. Science allows us to rely on experiments and observations to try to explain things. But many areas of science are open to interpretation, and misinterpretation, if we’re not discerning.

Information may seem to be all over the map, but we can use all of the tools at our disposal to interpret and synthesize it. And the best tools we have are the sciences. They may be disparate areas of study, but they all stem from our attempt to understand our universe, and ourselves.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Entangled States

2007-08-28T18:36:00.000-07:00

9/2/07 – 9/8/07
C. Zaitz

I’ve been thinking about quantum mechanics lately. QM is a branch of physics that deals with the universe on the scale of the very small. On a daily basis, we don’t enter the realm of quantum mechanics, but more and more, scientists are finding that the properties of the very small scale inform the universe on a very big scale. And it’s a quite different universe on the small scale.

On the scale of the tiny, basic laws of “classical” physics break down. We are used to measuring things and describing their positions with numbers. In the realm of atoms, measuring things becomes impossible. You may have heard of Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, the idea that you cannot know both the position and the momentum of an electron orbiting the nucleus of an atom. You can know where an electron is likely to be, but you can’t pinpoint it. The act of doing so would destroy the information you were trying to get. Once you “stop” the electron to study it, you have changed its momentum. And you cannot get around this fact. The measuring and the measured thing are entangled, you cannot separate them. We can intuit that perhaps more easily than other aspects of QM. In art, we say that “negative space” is as important as the object in space. There is a direct and entangled relationship between the object and the space around it. Change the object, and you automatically change the space surrounding it.

It turns out that objects, rather than just being objects, are better described as a series of relationships. You might not be able to know exactly where one particle is, but if it is entangled with another particle having an opposite position, you can know that whatever you do to one particle will always affect its entangled particle. So if one egg is sunny side up and its entangled partner is sunny side down, you can flip one egg and automatically and always flip the other too. This is called “entangled states.”

In quantum mechanics, we have to give up absolutes and accept probabilities. Perhaps that’s why we never notice quantum mechanics in our daily lives. QM says there is a real possibility that all of the atoms in your body could pass right through the atoms of a wall, allowing you to walk right though it. Does that mean Kung-Fu masters can really walk through walls? No, because on the scale of a human being, the probability of that happening is incredibly small, almost non-existent. But on the scale of the atom, it can happen. In fact it does happen, and furthermore, we rely on it happening. It’s called “quantum tunneling” and it’s the basis for our modern electronics and microchips.

Science and philosophy come together in quantum mechanics. We often say that the age of determinism in science, where A causes B through a direct line of events, has been replaced with the age of probability. Einstein hated this idea. His aversion to it shows up in his famous quote, “God does not play dice with the Universe.” Even today many people reject the underlying philosophical ramifications of QM while using its principles and products in every day life. But I find the QM idea of probabilities, relationships and entangled states to be an active and connecting philosophy. And we’ve only begun to explore it.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view

Dark Ages

2007-08-22T09:24:00.001-07:00

8/26/07 – 9/1/07
by C. Zaitz

When we think of the “dark ages” in western history, especially in science, we often think of folks believing the earth was flat and that the stars were little lights attached to a crystal sphere which circled the earth. In reality, just like today, people probably didn’t spend too much time thinking about how the stars were attached to the heavens, since they were busy trying to survive on meager meals and trying to avoid diseases. But there are always a few folks with either the time, or the light headedness from lack of food, who think about the heavens. All was not dark in the dark ages.

If we can get beyond the strong terms of contrast used throughout history like black and white, light and dark, we can begin to see the time period in Europe we generally regard as the “dark ages” more realistically. Between the years 500-1000 AD, or the early Middle Ages, people didn’t stop working, they made things, they communicated, and they thought. The problem with the dark ages, historians say, is that there is very little recorded information. Without recorded events, the time period becomes “dark” to historians. Unfortunately, writers from later times have shaped the way we think about the so-called dark ages, comparing them with what came before, the glorious Roman Empire, and what came after, the High Middle Ages and the Enlightenment. However, it isn’t completely accurate to say that no advancements to civilization came during that period. By the middle ages, most people believed that the earth was a very small part of an immense universe. Folks knew the earth was round, and though the science of the sky was intricately tied to prognostication and astrology, there was a considerable bank of knowledge about the planets and stars.

But in these times, people had to deal with an ongoing scarcity of food, hardships of weather, and now it seems scientists have found evidence that crop failure and a series of very cold summers may have been caused by some catastrophic event, such as volcanic eruption or asteroid collision. The first appearance of the Bubonic Plague came around this time, and before it was done centuries later, it had killed perhaps one half or more of the entire population of Europe. No wonder they didn’t record their history.

I wonder if the folks in the sixth century would have done anything different had they known the plague would kill every other person. I wonder what they would have done to prevent it. Eerily, the same things that may have prevented folks from recording their history then are predicted to happen to humanity again. Are we prepared? There are folks who look to the skies and tell us that we should begin to colonize other planets, but most of us aren’t listening. We are just trying to get through the day with modern day plagues of disease and lack of food and shelter many people worldwide suffer from.

I hope that the visionaries who want to travel to other planets, and the rest of us who support them, will make it happen in our lifetimes. I hope we learn from our history, and that we can keep a light on in the darkness that we all sometimes face.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

2007-08-21T07:16:00.001-07:00

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Disappointment

2007-08-15T06:44:00.001-07:00

8/19/07 – 8/26/07
by C. Zaitz

Sometimes when a person takes their first look through a telescope, they get a feeling of, “is that all there is? Where are the colors? Why is it so small and faint?” Ah, you were expecting Hubble Space Telescope photographic quality. How disappointing! Hubble Space Telescope photos are works of art, created from information traveling by radio frequencies over hundreds, thousands, and in the case of the Hubble Deep Field image, billions of light years.

The images are breathtaking. Who can forget the famous “Pillars of Creation,” the image of the Eagle Nebula whose elongated fingers of gas and dust may harbor baby star systems. Or the Deep Field, an image made by opening the Hubble’s photographic eyeball and having it stare at a tiny area of space for a very, very long time. But how do these images get back to earth? Actually, they come to us in black and white, as a series of zeroes and ones, strung along in complicated patterns like strands of DNA. Once they get to earth, computers assemble the information into black and white images. So how did they get so colorful?

Astronomers, or should I say artists, add it later. They use a computer program like Photoshop to color in the gases and clouds with tints they assign. But color is a hard thing to define. We each perceive it differently. Some people have a very keen sense of color, and some are color blind, meaning that the colors they see are different from what most of us see. My dad often confuses red and green, because, he says, red is a very dull color. Most of us don’t see it that way. In the the Pillars of Creation, both hydrogen and sulfur were detected as a red color in the clouds of gas. Astronomers changed the hydrogen to green so it could be distinguished from the sulfur. What we got was a gorgeous, colorful, if not accurate image that filled our imaginations. But what does accurate mean when it comes to color? It’s difficult to define an exact color because it is mostly perception. So how far from red can we stray before it becomes green? Or does it really matter? Dad thought they were still the same color!

How often have I said, “here’s Betelgeuse, a red star,” or, “this is Rigel, a blue star.” No wonder people get disappointed when they are expecting the star to be the color of Bozo’s nose in the sky. I could say, “Betelgeuse radiates light mostly in the infrared and red end of the spectrum, so it’s considered a “red star,” but it is so far away that the very little bit of light we get from it is only slightly tinged orangey-red.” But that’s pretty long-winded! So we oversimplify.

The Hubble pictures are so inspiring that I don’t think the colors are an issue. The only problem comes when people expect to see those kinds of images through a telescope. If you are expecting your view through a friend’s telescope to look like the poster you saw in the mall, you’ll be disappointed. But if you have patience and look with eyes and mind ready to see detail and to absorb what you are looking at, you’re bound to avoid disappointment.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

It's Just a Theory...

2007-08-08T12:15:00.000-07:00

8/12/07 – 8/18/07
by C. Zaitz

If science is based on “theories,” how do we know they are true? After all, a theory isn’t necessarily truth or law, is it?

All scientific theories begin as a hypothesis, or a possible answer to a question we ask. For the question, “Why don’t we fall off the earth if it’s round?” we could invent some pretty cool explanations. For example, we have seen how magnets on earth attract each other, and we know that iron can be magnetic. If earth is a big magnet, maybe it pulls the iron in our blood toward it. But then we remember that feathers and leaves also fall to earth and they have no iron in them. Oops, back to the drawing board with our hypothesis.

We will have to gather observations and do experiments to come up with another hypothesis. We have to design experiments that will test exactly what we want to test without introducing too much error. And we have to accept the answers we get, even if they don’t agree with our hypothesis. The key to scientific theories is that they need to be falsifiable. That means that we must be able to test to see if a hypothesis fails. If it does, we have to refine it or chuck it completely. If we make all reasonable tests and it holds up, it may become a theory.

In the late 17th century when Sir Isaac Newton began to think about what made apples fall and held the moon in orbit, he didn’t have a word for the force he was trying to describe. He wasn’t trying to prove a theory; he was trying to find a reasonable hypothesis to explain his observations. He needed a mathematical way to describe how objects move, so he developed calculus. With that tool, he was able to find an equation that worked in every case he tried. Finally he came up with a name for what he was describing, from the Latin, “gravitas,” meaning weight or heaviness. Today we call them the Laws of Gravitation, but they are really theories that have held up over time and trials. But new technology brings new tests.

By the beginning of the 20th century, Albert Einstein was able to test the laws of gravity around a massive object, the Sun, and found that the “laws” needed to be modified. By the time he was done, he had changed the way we think about gravity. No longer do we imagine it as an invisible magnet, but more like a fabric in which we are all embedded. Our movements are shaped by this fabric, which itself is shaped by mass. We follow its curves like golf balls on a putt putt course. Einstein called it spacetime, and scientists are still unraveling the implications today.

The word theory deserves more “gravity” than it is usually given. In order for a hypothesis to be scientific and to become a theory, it has to be tested. That’s why religious or “new age” ideas are often not considered to be in the realm of science. I believe it’s important for us to understand how science works. Otherwise we might never have known how gravity works, and therefore never be able to fly a rocket to the moon. Scientific theories are the only things that let us do that.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Fiery Skies of August

2007-08-01T11:35:00.000-07:00

8/5/07 – 8/11/07
by C. Zaitz

Every August, the earth passes through a part of its orbit where a vast cloud of debris awaits. The debris consists of tiny particles, many no larger than a mote of dust or grain of sand, left behind by a comet. As earth plows through the cloud, the tiny bits of rock are jammed into the thick atmosphere and create spectacular plasma trails as they incinerate. These are the Perseid meteors, and the nights of August 11th and 12th will be the peak this year.

I find it odd that particles so very tiny can make such a fiery fuss in the sky. So do other scientists, and it hasn’t been completely clear what is actually making the light. Scientist study the light from meteors to find out if it comes from ionized gas as the meteorite interacts with the air and melts and sublimates, or if it’s from the compressed and heated air that the meteorite creates as it slams in at over 40 miles per second. It may be both, but meteor spectra tell us that most of the light contains ionized bits of meteorite, making the first explanation more plausible as the main cause.

This year, the event of the Perseid meteor shower is predicted to be good. The moon will not be around to outshine the sometimes faint streaks of light, and if you can find a spot where the sky is not tainted by artificial lights, the chances are great for you to see several meteors a minute. Perseids can go off in any direction, but if you trace the streak back to the source, you will be somewhere near the constellation Perseus. Though the average sighting may be one per minute, often you will see a “clumping effect” where you may see 3-5 in a minute but then experience a lull.

The very best time to see them is always between midnight and sunrise, but that’s inconvenient for most of us. Luckily, anytime after twilight is fine, though if you can stay up, the view will get dramatically better towards morning. You don’t have to know where Perseus is, which is handy since he’s not the most spectacular of all constellations. Look toward the northeast in the early evening, and higher in the north more overhead as night turns to morning. All you really need is a fairly dark sky, perhaps a lawnchair, and some patience.

Meteor showers are one of the most fun things to watch in astronomy. You do not need the aid of binoculars or a telescope to enjoy a meteor shower, but you can try to photograph them if you’re a gambler or just very patient! You can stay out late with friends and count them or just try to be the first to see the biggest and brightest one of the night. It’s always fun to hear someone shout “There’s one” and have everyone sigh because by the time someone says those words, the meteor is usually gone. Meteor showers are social events, and a great way to watch the sky with your loved ones and friends. I encourage you to take your children or parents out for the evening and enjoy the natural show of the Perseid meteor shower.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Colonists

2007-07-25T09:05:00.000-07:00

7/22/07 - 7/29/07
by C. Zaitz

This year marks the 400th anniversary of the first permanent English settlement in the Americas. Jamestown, Virginia is known as the birthplace of the country, where the first boatload of eager colonists landed. They arrived in May, and I can imagine that the summer was filled with building, hunting, cooking and fending off human and animal enemies. By July I imagine that the colonists were wondering what they had been thinking, coming to a new world so far from home. They must have been hot, hungry, riddled with mosquito bites and maybe a few arrow wounds. But enough of them survived the terrible famines and attacks from the Spanish and Natives to build homes, churches and official buildings, to flourish and become farmers and businessmen.

400 years later, we can wonder what happened to that colonizing spirit. When you first heard that we’d gone to the moon, didn’t you think Mars was next? What happened? Yes, space travel is very dangerous, expensive and time consuming, but was not also crossing the Atlantic to the New World?

Old colonizing risks: Running out of food and water. Disease and pestilence. Getting speared by someone already living there. Death.

New colonizing risks: Running out of food, air and water. Disease and pestilence. Getting lasered by someone already living there. Death.

So why haven’t we planned a mission to Mars? Are the risks any greater? Are the costs heavier? If we really wanted to travel to Mars, we would. America has not been frugal when its will was strong. Why do we not establish a mission to Mars, to walk the rusty sands and build a human presence on that nearby planet? Perhaps we need an outside menace to motivate us. The mission to the moon was a response to immediate threat of Soviet superiority. Without that threat, it’s not obvious that we would have endured the expense and the risk. But being motivated by threat is not the best case scenario, since the threats that would motivate us to travel to other planets usually involves the destruction of our own planet.

But it’s not all gloom and doom. Economic incentive seems to be what drives us today, rather than fear of asteroid collision, irreversible global warming, or even nuclear holocaust. Some say our governments should pool resources and offer incentives to private companies to innovate. Private companies can often get the job done with less bureaucracy, more efficiency, and less waste than governments. That requires widespread cooperation, however, and economic motivation. Companies need to know what they will gain from the endeavor. On the other hand, did the Jamestown colonists really know what they were getting into before they left England? They surely weren’t making a profit during the first years of starvation.

I don’t think our will is weak. We are fascinated by space travel, by UFOs and aliens. Maybe we are just yearning for proof that it can be done. Whatever our ultimate motivation, I hope that it includes our will to survive and our curiosity to know the universe. And I hope we don’t wait too long to get started. Who knows where we’ll be in 400 more years. I hope it doesn’t take a threat of Jupiterian superiority to get us motivated, because by then, it may be too late.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Night Watchmen

2007-07-17T16:00:00.000-07:00

7/15/07 - 7/21/07
by C. Zaitz

There are a lot of things floating above us, circling the planet all day long, all night long. While we are all sleeping, there are flocks of satellites gliding silently overhead. If you’ve been out this summer even for ten minutes of star gazing, you’ve seen them. I love it when you can see more than one at a time. They look like a flotilla of space ships, and I imagine a future where they are just commuters coming to and from work.

Meanwhile I looked into what is really up there. Mostly, it’s derelict satellites, parts of old rockets, debris from collisions and even frozen space sewage. It seems the astronauts launch it out into space to get rid of it. Unfortunately, the bags of waste have the same orbit as they do, so it is not unheard of that someone might meet up with it in a future orbit.

There are many different types of orbits for satellites. The International Space Station and most of our weather satellites are in LEO’s, or low earth orbits. They are speeding along at nearly 20,000 mph because they are so “close” to earth, at only 200-500 miles. They circle the earth every 90 minutes. If they went any slower, earth’s gravity would overcome them and they would tumble to earth, burning streaks of incinerated satellite parts as they fell.

A common LEO, especially for satellites that need to see the whole earth over time, is a polar orbit. As the satellite travels from pole to pole, the earth rotates underneath. Over time, the satellite will have passed over the entire planet, just by maintaining its orbit. They can map the entire earth. Remote sensing and long term weather satellites are often in these polar orbits. These are very common to see. I saw three the other night, all at slightly different speeds, but traveling along the same trajectory like silent watchmen.

A GEO is a much higher orbit. GEOs are geosynchronous orbits, meaning they are up so high and going just the right speed so that they appear to be stationary over a certain spot on earth. You can imagine what use these orbits would be, especially if you were curious about a certain spot on earth. Unfortunately, at 22,000 miles up, the view is not as sharp as a lower orbiting satellite's. Their advantage is that they have a large coverage area. We use them for relaying a signal for communication or broadcasting. Our telecommunications satellites are in GEO orbits. The problem with this kind of orbit is that the satellite must be directly over the equator to maintain the orbit. That leaves out the polar regions, and those folks want their satellite TV, just like we do. So we have another orbit, a highly elliptical one, which can come close to earth at one point, even a polar region, and then wander father out.

If you’d like to know exactly when satellites are passing over your head, you can go to the Heavens Above website and enter your town. You’ll be surprised at what you can see. And it’s just the tip of the iceberg of the night watchmen. You’ll be surprised at who’s seeing you!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

The Heavens

2007-07-03T14:30:00.001-07:00

7/8/07 – 7/14/07
by C. Zaitz

I have a collection of old astronomy books. Sometimes the author will refer to the sky as “the Heavens.” What a lovely way to think of the regions above our heads. It gives the sense of the vastness and beauty of the sky, but the term does tend to lump everything together. “The Heavens” is a more encompassing term than saying the singular “heaven” but it doesn’t truly capture the layered and complex nature of what lies above.

For example, during the day, the sky is all around us, and we rarely ever look at it, just as we rarely look at the ceiling in our house. But the sky is much more interesting, even on a bland day, than the ceiling. The sky has magnificent layers of intrigue, layers of depth and color. Blue skies aren’t just blue, and grey skies are even more colorful. My favorite, of course, is the black sky of night, when all the subtle, distant and concentrated light from the stars can penetrate the atmosphere and be seen here on earth.

But sometimes when you look up, you see what looks like “heaven” from what we’ve seen in paintings and drawings. We can see rays of light coming down from the frothy, fluffy gold-edged clouds with a bright sun lighting them from behind. It’s a beautiful scene, which is probably why it was chosen to represent heaven. Those rays have a technical name. They are called crepuscular rays, which certainly isn’t as poetic a term as “heavenly rays,” but describes the rays of light that seem to spread out from behind back lit clouds, especially at twilight. Crepuscular means, “twilight,” though the effect can happen anytime there are enough particles of dust or vapor in the air to scatter light well. The cause of these rays is a combination of light and shadow. The light is always there when the sun is out, but the shadow created by an object like a cloud that gives the light a “ray” appearance.

From our perspective, the parallel rays from the sun actually look like they diverge from behind the cloud, giving them that spread out “ray from heaven” look, as if a heavenly body shone a great golden flashlight to illuminate our little patch of earth. It’s the same trick of perspective that the brain plays to make parallel railroad tracks look like they converge at a distance.

There certainly are other beautiful effects of light and shadow, scattering and perspective to be seen in the sky, but I think crepuscular rays are some of the most evocative. Perhaps it’s because they do seem to be flooding the earth with golden light, almost like a curtain opening up onto earth’s stage, as directed by something bigger than ourselves. Next time you see them, you’ll know that they are caused by natural circumstances, but you can always let those pretty rays take your gaze up into the sky. I assure you there will always be something interesting to see in “the heavens.”

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Summer Vacations

2007-06-27T11:43:00.001-07:00

7/1/07 – 7/7/07
By C. Zaitz

‘Tis the season to get away. Whether it is vacation travel time, visiting relatives time, or maybe just taking a vacation in your mind time, most folks like to change locations in the summer. I’m often asked about how the sky changes when you travel. The answer is: it depends on where you’re going! If you are traveling mostly due east or west, you don’t have to worry. You’ll see pretty much the same sky you will “here,” at pretty much the same time of the evening, give or take some minutes depending on how close you are to the edge of your time zone. For example, if you travel to Chicago from Detroit, you’ll notice a large difference in actual sunset time. Chicago is on the eastern edge of the Central zone, and we are on the western edge of the Eastern. We gain an hour by traveling to Chicago, so though physically the two cities aren’t that far apart, Detroit has sunset around 9pm EDT, and Chicago sees it at 8:15pm CDT.

If you’re traveling north or south of “here” (wherever you are), you’ll start to see some differences. From Michigan and pretty much anywhere in the US, the solar system objects make a path across the southern sky as they seem to travel east to west. The further south you go, the higher they will be in the sky. As you travel close to the equator, they will be above your head. As you go south of the equator, you’ll notice the parade of planets across the northern sky, but they’ll still be in the same order. Currently Venus is closest to the western horizon at sunset, followed by Saturn, with Jupiter bringing up the rear furthest toward the east. They will still seem to travel east to west, so the only difference is that you’ll be looking north, rather than south to see them.

The constellations do vary with latitude, but not that much within the US. If you travel north of here, you won’t add any new constellations to your repertoire; we see all the northern ones throughout the year already. If you go significantly south, perhaps beyond Miami, you will see sights never seen from our latitude. This is the realm of the hopelessly obscure constellations. If you thought Cancer (the crab) and Monoceros (the unicorn) were hard to find, try finding Antlia (the pump) or Norma (the carpenter’s square). I may be biased, but I think most of the groovy constellations are in the northern skies. That’s no excuse to stay home this summer, though!

I think the main difference you’ll find as you travel is the view of the sky in general. There aren’t too many places left that are unpolluted by street lights, but when you travel, chances are greater that you may find a few of them. I think that the mind actually sighs when it sees the vast number of stars of the Milky Way in a velvety black summer night sky. That’s when it begins to get rid of the hassles and worries of the long cold months and begins to finally get a change of perspective. And for me, that’s when the vacation really begins!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Not Just a Pretty Sky

2007-06-20T13:47:00.001-07:00

6/24/07 – 6/30/07
C. Zaitz

I am in the habit of telling people to look in the sky to see various things like planets or the moon. Then I will invariably say “it’s so pretty, just look east, blah blah etc.” Recently I was called on to clarify my statement. “So just what do you mean by pretty? What colors? What should we expect to see?” “Um, well, uh, it’s just pretty,” was all I could say.

I know people want to know what to expect, but describing beauty in the sky is tough, since it’s in the eye of the beholder. I’m always tilting upward to check out the sky, even during the day. I find beauty in the cloud formations, in the gradation of blue to white in a daytime sky, in the windblown condensation trails left behind by high flying jets. But such visceral experiences are hard to put it into words. Words are for the explanation of what a contrail is, but when I’m just enjoying it, I fall silent. I think that’s a pretty common human experience.

Recently the crescent moon, Venus, Saturn and a bright star Regulus were in alignment in the western sky. My parents were visiting so I showed them the line of objects and extended it over to Jupiter, also along the ecliptic, or plane of the solar system as seen from earth. But rather than going into the whole explanation of what we were seeing, I just pointed to them and named them. I know that some people would rather just enjoy the view rather than knowing what they were looking at and why.

On the other hand, sometimes knowing is good. In the past, and even still today, there are folks who would rather make a leap of the imagination and say that the alignment meant something, such as an omen or a foreshadowing. It is unusual it is to have such an alignment of bright objects in the sky. Unusual because it doesn’t happen every night, or even every month, but it is to be expected from time to time, since the planets do all travel the same highway, the ecliptic. For me there’s no need to assign a special significance to it other than “it’s really pretty when it happens.”

The other night I went out on a hot, humid night to gaze at the setting moon and Venus, and they were both tinted orangey red. Immediately I thought “how beautiful, a blood red crescent moon.” It occurred to me that some people in the world might think that something was wrong, that maybe the moon had exploded or was on fire. The truth was not that exciting. It was reddish because there was a lot of water vapor in the air. That’s why it felt so humid. It is the same light extinction that happens when the sun is low along the horizon making gorgeous sunsets on humid days. Knowing it allowed me to appreciate the science and the art at the same time.

There’s definitely a time and place for just looking, but we shouldn’t forget the depth behind the beauty; there are reasons for why things are the way they are. For me, knowing the reasons adds another dimension to the view, but doesn’t make it any less “pretty.” And it helps scare away the ghosts of superstition.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Close Encounters

2007-06-14T08:32:00.000-07:00

6/17/07 – 6/23/07
by C. Zaitz

Every summer, an email floats around the internet about Mars. The email tells us that no one alive will ever see this again. It’s a once in a lifetime event. Don’t miss it. Then the email says that Mars is as close as it will be for 5,000 or maybe even 60,000 years. However, the same email comes back every year, and most of it is hype. Technically, earth and Mars were closest to each other in August of 2003, but every time earth passes Mars, we have a close encounter. Human eyes can’t discern the difference between when Mars is 35 million miles from us or 40 million miles. It would be like looking at a baseball 400 miles away. You can’t really tell if it’s 50 miles closer with the unaided eye because it’s so small compared to its distance.

Currently, Mars isn’t even a player in the night sky. But there are three planets that are. Jupiter, for one. If you’re looking for close encounters, it happens that we are closer to Jupiter this month than at other times in the year, and it is definitely showing off brightly all night long. “Closest” simply means that we are on the same side of the sun as Jupiter. Imagine a Nascar track with earth on an inside lane and Jupiter further toward the outside edge. Because we are going faster and have less space to travel, we pass Jupiter. As we pass, we are closer than we are at other times. It’s happening now, and it’s a great time to use your binoculars to see Jupiter and its largest moons. If you want a fun project with kids, you can even watch it from night to night and see how the moons move around Jupiter, just like the famous astronomer Galileo did. Use a sketch pad and draw the configuration. Kids (and adults) can actually see something changing in the sky, and you never know what will spark a life-long interest in science. Galileo’s sketches changed the way people thought, and forever put to rest the idea that the earth was the center of everything.

Saturn is also up in the evening sky, but sets an hour or two after dark. Saturn is even more astounding when you see it through a telescope. Often we are jaded by seeing full color giant images of planets and space objects from the Hubble Space Telescope. But there is something special about seeing Saturn through a small telescope. You can’t see color, and it looks tiny, but you can see the rings and even a moon. It’s nearly twice as far away as Jupiter, but it is so distinctive that you really know you’re looking at a planet, not just a bright light. I highly recommend it this summer, especially with kids.

The third bright planet up in the early evening is Venus. She’s been especially showy lately, high in the west during evening twilight, and shining more brightly than airplane headlights. Her reflective clouds send a lot of sunlight our way, and because you can see her at sunset, she’s the planet you’ll notice most. At the end of June, she’ll be close to Saturn, and this will be the prettiest close encounter of all. Just look to the west as it gets dark enough to see them, around 9:45-10 pm.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Crowning Glory

2007-06-06T03:28:00.001-07:00

6/10/07 - 6/16/07

I happen to have a rather large collection of jewelry. Big piles of it. Drawers of it. Most of it is costume jewelry, just shiny cut glass, but that’s the stuff I love. I’ve been collecting it since kindergarten. I remember playing with a small wooden dresser at school and opening a drawer that contained a shiny necklace. I’m pretty sure I didn’t know what rhinestones were and thought I had found the crown jewels, so I promptly plopped the thing on my head, a gesture that pronounced me princess of the kindergarten class. Silly, but my fascination with rhinestones never wore off.

It was about that time that I fell in love with the sky. Was it the sparkly nature of it that drew me? Perhaps, but what I didn’t know then but to my great pleasure learned later, is that there is a sparkly crown in the sky. It’s called Corona Borealis and it crowns the sky in late spring and summer. Corona is Latin for crown, and borealis refers to the fact it’s in the northern sky, not to be confused with Corona Australis, the much less impressive Southern Crown. The northern circlet is made of seven stars, none of which are especially bright. The brightest is called Gemma, aptly named as the shiniest gem star. It’s not directly in the center, but fairly close to it.

Corona Borealis is found high in the sky, close between Hercules and Bootes. Once you find it, you may get a little thrill of seeing princess Ariadne’s crown in the sky. She was the daughter of King Minos of Crete and Pasiphae. Thanks to her mother, Ariadne was also half-sister to the Minotaur, the half bull, half human creature that lived in the labyrinth of Crete. The labyrinth was a riotous collection of maze-like hallways, a perfect home for hiding the human-flesh eating Minotaur. Pasiphae had known he was a terrible beast even as a baby, but hadn’t the heart to kill him, so he grew to be a terrible menace. To pacify the monster, each year King Minos chose seven male and seven female Athenian youths to sacrifice to the creature. One year the son of the king of Athens, Theseus, decided to put an end to this annual gruesome slaughter. He joined the group of sacrificial victims and went to meet the Minotaur.

Meanwhile, Ariadne had caught a glimpse of the handsome Theseus and instantly fell in love with him. She decided to help him by giving him a sword and a ball of thread. The sword’s purpose was obvious, but the thread was what saved Theseus from being hopelessly lost in the labyrinth. Theseus did slay the Minotaur, and was able to rescue himself and other victims by following the thread back through the labyrinth to safety. Theseus rewarded Ariadne briefly for her help by taking her to the island of Naxos, but there he abandoned her. She managed to catch the eye of Dionysus, the god of wine, who felt sorry for her and married her. He is the one who gave her the crown now seen in the evening sky.

Now we can all enjoy having a crown above our heads. Sure, it’s made of stars, not diamonds, but as with my pretty rhinestone necklace, you can make of it what you will. And now you can think of the story of Ariadne and Theseus and join the kingdom of people who have done so since early times.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Messier Sky

2007-05-29T19:13:00.000-07:00

6/3/07 – 6/9/07
by C. Zaitz

It is my opinion that summertime is the very best time for evening sky watching, whether you are a casual looker, an interested observer or a hard-core “Messier object” junkie. I’ve been all three at various times, but summer is the time when we can spend more quality time outside at night, gazing upward, finding your “fix” in the stars. Beyond knowing the constellations, if you really want to get to know the universe, finding Messier objects is a good way to do it. (Messier doesn’t refer to the chaos of the sky, it’s the last name of French astronomer Charles Messi “ay.”)

Monsieur Messier was an observational astronomer at the end of the 18th century who was very interested in finding new comets. This was a popular past time for an astronomer seeking to be immortalized by getting a comet named after him. However, Messier was annoyed with the countless fuzzy clouds in space that were easily confused with fuzzy comets. Messier catalogued over 100 “nebulae,” which were thought to be some sort of cloud within the galaxy. He hoped to save himself and other comet hunters the confusion of wondering if the faint fuzzy was indeed a fame-inducing object, or merely another “cloud.”

The existence of other galaxies beyond the Milky Way was not known until William Herschel and others continued cataloguing the fuzzy objects. The Herschel General Catalogue of Nebulae, listing over 5,000 objects, gave way to the New General Catalogue (NGC) in 1888, which contained nearly 8,000. Soon their true nature became clear- these clouds were not of the Milky Way at all, but each a separate “island universe” like our own. And Messier’s catalogue of galaxies, nebulae and supernovae remnants gave him more fame than any comet would have. Amateur astronomers world-over know of Messier and his wonderful catalogue of deep space objects. The NGC does not immortalize its author, but contains Messier objects as well as many more interesting destinations for the observer with time and telescope on hand.

The summer skies hold many Messier objects, known by their “M” number. Many of them have very pretty nicknames. For example, M57 is the Ring Nebula, M101 is the Pinwheel Galaxy and M104 is the Sombrero Galaxy. Other nick names are not so lovely; such as the Blackeye galaxy (M64), the Crab Nebula (M1), and the Dumbbell Nebula (M27). Cute name or not, one of the most beautiful sights to see in the late spring and summer is M13, the lovely globular cluster of stars in Hercules. A globular cluster is a tightly packed group of older stars. In M13 there are estimated to be over a million stars in a sphere of space about 100 light years across. You can see the Hercules cluster with binoculars, but it truly is best seen through a telescope.

M57, the Ring Nebula in Lyra is also a pretty sight in a telescope. It is the first planetary nebula ever discovered. It looks like an ethereal smoke ring in the black sky, but it is the outer shells of a dying star, suffering the same fate as will our sun, in some 5 billion years.

There are many more such objects within view of a typical amateur telescope, and summer amateur group star parties are the best way to see these sights, and to get to know those folks who can help you discover the universe of Messier deep space objects.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Magnetism

2007-05-23T04:11:00.001-07:00

5/27/07 – 6/2/07
by C. Zaitz

The earth is cooling. It had to. When it formed some 4.6 billion years ago, it was way too hot for any life to form. In fact, it’s taken a lot of time to cool enough for rhinos and beavers and gazelles to be able to roam freely without burning their hooves and paws and giant feet. Much of earth’s history has been spent cooling and changing into the planet we know and love. Unfortunately, earth doesn’t know and love us. It keeps changing, whether or not the life forms occupying its surface can survive it or not. It cares not whether its atmosphere grows thick or thin, whether its waters are pure, or if its movements will disrupt the parasites on its edge.

We know that huge volcanic eruptions and earthquakes can cause widespread destruction. They are caused by the movement of the plates of crust and mantle. Deeper within the earth lies the mechanism for creating an invisible shield, a barrier against the killing radiation from the sun. The earth has a fairly strong magnetic field, created and maintained by the movements of its liquid metallic outer core. The field extends out into space like a giant protective web. We have learned about the nature of our magnetic field from looking at the bottom of the ocean at the mid-Atlantic ridge. As magma flows out from the crack between two separating tectonic plates, little bits of magnetic material align in the direction of earth’s magnetic field. It hardens and the magnetic record is solidified. We can read the ocean floor like a book, and it’s telling us that over time the magnetic field of the earth changes. Sometimes it is aligned as it is now, but other times it’s completely switched. The north magnetic pole is sometimes in the southern hemisphere! What’s nerve-wracking is that while it’s switching, it can weaken and be non-existent for awhile. Our mid-Atlantic story book is telling us that it may be time for another switch. Or even more harrowing, as the earth cools and the outer core solidifies, the magnetic field may disappear forever.

Though we don’t often notice the effects of the magnetic field in our daily lives, it does provide an invisible barrier from the harsher radiation from the sun. We’re all familiar with the northern lights, which are caused by high energy solar radiation interacting with our atmosphere, spiraling in along the magnetic field lines near the poles. But what we’re not aware of is the daily bombardment of high energy particles from the sun that are deflected away from us. Without our magnetic field, we would be exposed to much more radiation than we’re used to, and it could be very harmful to all life forms on earth.

Between earth’s mantle and the cold, stark emptiness of outer space, lie the layers of geology that hold our history. Creatures have come and gone in the 3 billion year history of life on earth. It started with single celled organisms and has proliferated in the multifarious beings of today. But the creatures that were around 100 million years ago are not necessarily the ones we see now. Life has changed, often in big sweeping changes caused by the earth itself. Our magnetic field may be an important part of the plot of how life on earth changes, and we may be in store for the next chapter in the book. I hope it has a happy ending!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

The Short and the Long

2007-05-15T12:40:00.000-07:00

5/21/07 – 5/27/07
by C. Zaitz

I just had one of those milestone birthdays- you know, the ones that are supposed to be more special than the rest because the number is getting so high that you have to celebrate just being alive. It made me think of the age of things. Biologically, things happen on a pretty short time scale. 70-80 years is not that long when you take into consideration how long rocks live. In astronomy we talk about ages of stars, in geology we talk about the ages of rocks and planets. In human lifescales, those numbers are incomprehensible. We have no feeling for how long it takes a rock to form, much less a star. It seems like eternity to wait for your tomatoes to ripen or for your hair to grow out after a bad cut!

Though humans have a relatively short lifespan, we are still around long enough to watch things grow and develop, die and transform. Plants and animals live in our time scale, though we marvel at the 2,000 year old sequoias and ancient cedars. But things we think of as everlasting, like rocks or stars, are not eternal. All rocks move through a cycle, from being sand sediments on the surface, to being metamorphised as the pressure of layers upon layers of rock change its character, to suffering the igneous fate of melted rocks, turning into magma and reforming on the surface as lava basalt, only to be worn away again as sand and sediment. Eons pass and the dirt just keeps changing form, nothing destroyed or created, but morphing from one form to another.

The same thing happens with stars. Our sun was once diffuse gas and dust, our own planet not more than a breath of cosmic debris, sprinkled with rare elements fused in the death throes of an ancestor star. Gravity and pressure brought everything around, and our solar system will go for at least as long as it already has, some 4.5 billion years. Then it will die, only to form something new in the next “billenia.” Will it be something completely different? A double star or part of a new open cluster of stars? Or maybe a familiar life-harboring solar system?

We happen to be living in a very particular time when we as a species can begin to understand all the cycles of life and death around us. How unique and incredible for us. It’s not surprising we’re so curious about the universe, since we see our own selves reflected in the life cycles, in the growing and dying of everything around us. I think we study these cycles to try to understand what happens when we, too, die. Will we be born again in some “next cycle?”

From an old southern banjo tune:
Little birdie, little birdie,
come sing to me your song.
I've a short while to be here,
and a long time to be gone.
Little birdie, little birdie,
What makes you fly so high?
It’s because I am a true little bird
and I do not fare to die.
I guess I like to think that nothing really goes away. We all get older and will all die, but even black holes give up their dead eventually. Nothing seems to be destroyed, and it all comes back around again, sometimes in the near future, like perennial flowers, and sometimes in the long run, like planets with life.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

A Weighty Subject

2007-05-09T04:41:00.001-07:00

5/13/07 – 5/20/07
by C. Zaitz

My husband recently lost about 35 pounds due to having a very overactive thyroid gland. After an intense potion of radiation, it calmed down, so we started going back to the gym for workouts. He picked up a 35 pound weight and gave it to me to feel how much weight he’d lost. It seemed very heavy, but he carried it around for years. I started to think about weight and how we measure it, and how hard it is to lose it.

Weight is a combination of how much gravity pulls down on us, and how much “us” there is. Often in everyday life we confuse “mass” and “weight.” Mass is an intrinsic property of something, measured in pounds or kilograms. It’s how much “stuff” there is. If our mass was 150 kg on earth, it would still be 150 kg on the moon. But we wouldn’t weigh as much there, because the moon has much less gravity than earth. To get our weight, we would have to multiply our mass by how much gravity our “ground” has. Since we all live on earth and have nearly the same amount of gravity tugging on us, we forget the fact that weight and mass are different things.

Interestingly, if there were no floor or surface to stand on, you wouldn’t feel weight at all. If the floor wasn’t “pushing” back on you as hard as gravity is pulling you toward the center of the earth, you would just fall in, feeling no weight at all. This is “free fall” or “weightlessness.” It’s hard to do on earth, but the astronauts in orbit are very familiar with it. The astronauts and the space station might not have any “weight” in orbit, but they certainly have mass, which takes energy to move. That’s why it takes a lot of fuel to move stuff around even in “weightlessness.”

The fun comes when we figure out how much we’d weigh on other planets. Which would you choose, big planet or small? A 150 pound person would weigh 57 pounds on Mars. On the moon, you’d weigh a mere 25 pounds. But things get weird when you go to one of the giant, gassy planets. You’d think a mammoth planet like Saturn, a planet that could engulf earth 760 times, would have an enormous amount gravity. It does, but the farther you get from the center, the force of gravity lessens exponentially. Saturn has about 95 times more mass than earth, but its radius is 9.4 times that of earth. The math works out that on the “surface” or visible gassy outer atmosphere of Saturn, you would weigh approximately what you do on earth. The same is true of Neptune and Uranus. Jupiter is the most massive planet, 318 times more than earth, but its radius is over 11 times earth’s. Its surface gravity turns out to be about 2.5 times that of earth’s. Our 150 pound person would only weigh 375 pounds on Jupiter. Not bad for the biggest planet of them all. On Saturn, this same person would weigh a svelte 137 pounds. So you can actually “lose” weight by going to Saturn. Not to mention the weight you’d lose by eating freeze-dried peas for the three years it would take to get there.

If you’d like to check your own weight on the planets, you can go to: http://www.exploratorium.edu/ronh/weight/index.html to plan your weight loss/gain itinerary.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Saturn in Leo

2007-05-02T08:03:00.000-07:00

5/6/07 – 5/12/07
by C. Zaitz

Sometimes I take comfort in the thought that, as crazy as life gets here on earth, the planets are making their planetary journeys ‘round the sun in their own time. Each planet has its own pace, and the slowest, calmest naked-eye planet is Saturn. Right now Saturn is passing in front of the constellation Leo. Some folks say that this fact can be life altering.

For fun I looked up what astrologers have to say about the planet Saturn being “in” Leo. Because Saturn orbits so slowly, it spends more than two years in any one of the zodiac constellations. Saturn was the god of change, of destroying the old to make way for the new, so astrologers say. In his modern personification, he’s a teacher, and his tests are often difficult and life changing.

Astrologically, people born when the sun was “in” Leo tend to be leaders, and very involved with ego. So to have such a “destructive” planet in Leo seems to spell disaster for the top cats. But astrologers also say that if you are willing, Saturn’s life-changing presence can open up new doors and clean your inner house. That’s a lot of deep advice from the distant gas planet and the even more distant, boiling hot gas stars that make up the constellation of Leo. Recently I showed Leo to some 4th graders. They said that Leo looks like a smiley face or a pony or a balloon. This is not a very distinguished description of Leo, but nevertheless, kind of true. In general, constellations like Hercules or Sagittarius look nothing like a giant hero or a centaur. So to assign such lofty characteristics to a group of stars scattered through space is amusing to me. Of course, it’s crafty humans that come up with the characteristics, the shapes and the connections. And it’s searching humans that read their horoscopes and make connections with their own lives. It’s kind of interesting that not only do planets reflect sunlight back to us, but they reflect our own hopes and dreams, problems and possible solutions, back to us from afar.

As far as Saturn being “in” a constellation, right now is about 8 times the distance from the earth to the sun. It takes light about and hour and half to reach us from Saturn. Stars are much farther away. The brightest star in Leo, Regulus, is nearly 80 light years away from us. The planet actually moves “in front of” the stars of the constellation as it orbits, but it sounds more mysterious and inviting to say Saturn is “in” Leo, especially if you call that part of the sky a “house.”

If you want to see Saturn in Leo, look toward the south after sunset, about halfway up the sky, and look for the “sickle” or the backwards question mark shape of stars. That is the front part of Leo, if we imagine the round sickle blade as his head and golden mane. Saturn will be just to the right or west of the sickle. This spring, Saturn’s rings are prettily displayed for anyone with a telescope. Whether or not Saturn brings life altering events for you, you can still let the beauty of the reflected light dazzle your eyes and your mind. And that can be life altering as well, especially if it moves you to use the credit card to buy a new telescope!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Goldilocks Planets

2007-04-25T08:25:00.001-07:00

4/29/07 – 5/5/07
by C. Zaitz

The news is that astronomers have found a new planet orbiting a distant star. Astronomers have been finding planets in distant solar systems for decades, but usually the planets they discover are huge, more like Jupiter on steroids than anything earth-like. With better telescopes and more research, we are beginning to see the smaller planets. One in particular is being heralded as a “Goldilocks” planet, not too big, not too small, nor too cold, nor too hot. A “just right” planet that could possibly harbor liquid water, pretty sunsets, or even life. At least that’s the theory.

Sometimes we refer to our neighboring planets as having the “Goldilocks syndrome.” Mars and Venus are our cosmic neighbors, and together, we three planets all orbit within a distance from the sun called the “habitable zone,” where the amount of solar radiation reaching the surface is conducive for reasonable temperatures. So why did earth alone develop life, so prolifically and thoroughly that not even cataclysmic events could completely wipe it out? And what went wrong with our neighbors?

Venus is a study in what can go wrong with a nice planet. Venus and earth have plenty in common. They are very close in size, composition and their distance from the sun. However, Venus ended up with a very big problem: a runaway greenhouse effect. The effect of atmosphere trapping solar radiation and making a planet warmer than it should be is common- earth and Mars also have it. However, perhaps because it gets more solar radiation or because it had more carbon dioxide in its atmosphere, Venus is in a vicious cycle where its thick clouds trap nearly all the sunlight coming in. It simply cannot cool itself off. As we raise the level of certain gasses in our own atmosphere, we run the risk of having our greenhouse effect go astray. The current warming trend of our planet is a giant red flag that we are indeed starting a process that we would not be able to stop, much less reverse.

Mars, due to its further distance from the sun or its diminutive size, has too little atmosphere, and thus too little greenhouse effect. It is too cold on the surface of Mars for water to exist in liquid form, so it ended up a dry, cold desert-like planet. We know that Mars once was warmer and are convinced that water used to flow, but unless the conditions are just right, a planet goes awry and climate changes ensue.

The newly discovered Goldilocks planet is orbiting a red dwarf star called Gliese 581, about 20 light years away. The planet is heavier than earth, with a rocky surface and most likely liquid water. That’s a lot of information about this planet, since the data they gathered is mostly about how Gliese 581 wobbles. From this wobble, astronomers can glean information about what is going around the star to make it wobble. They infer size, distance, and even composition from the wobble. They have surmised that Gliese’s planet may be very much like earth, perhaps a “just right” place where water and life could exist. However, as we look at our neighboring planets, we see a lot of variation in a planet’s fate. It will be interesting to learn more about these extra-solar planets. Even if we don’t find life, perhaps we will find answers to how planets behave, giving us insight to our own problems and possible solutions.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Super Massive Black Holes

2007-04-24T11:04:00.000-07:00

4/22/07 – 4/28/07
by C. Zaitz

One of the more eyebrow-raising bits of gossip heard in astronomy circles is that most galaxies, even our own, contain a super massive black hole at their cores. A super massive black hole is much heavier than a garden variety stellar black hole, which can weigh as little as one and a half suns or as much as 14 suns. That may not sound spectacular, but a black hole with the mass of 10 suns could fit into the city of Detroit. The mass of a black hole is directly related to its size, so the heavier it is, the bigger it is. But how massive is super massive?

The monster black holes we find in the centers of galaxies tend to range in mass from a hundred thousands suns to tens of billions of suns. Some scientists suggest that they started out the same way stellar-sized holes do, but over long periods of time grew larger and larger from consuming the available material in the center of the galaxy. It seems more likely that these black holes, like the one in the middle of our galaxy, formed from a large cloud of collapsing gas, creating a massive central star, some hundreds of thousands of solar masses, which then collapsed (with no supernova) to form a gigantic black hole. Since that time it has been eating everything close enough to be drawn in. Don’t worry, though; we are very, very far from the center of our galaxy, and not in the least affected by it.

We noted that the mass of the hole is directly related to its size, but it turns out that the density of a black hole is inversely related to its mass. The bigger the original star, the less dense it needs to be to become a black hole. Super massive black holes can actually be about as dense as water, since they are so very massive. And the event horizon, the place beyond which we lose sight of you as you swirl in, is so far from the singularity at the center that a trip into the super massive black hole would take enough time to allow you to ponder your fate. In fact, scientists think that the tidal forces normally so very strong near a black hole, strong enough to “spaghettify” you (your atoms are ripped into a long strand of you as you twirl into the hole) are not so strong near the really massive black holes. So your trip into it might be somewhat non-eventful, if not pleasant. That is, if you were to be so foolish to be near such a black hole. Lest we forget, there are many dangerous things about black holes, not the least of which is the torrent of X-rays and gamma rays flooding out of the accretion disk. This is the plate of material feeding into the black hole, and it really does look like a big, gassy plate, serving up the special of the day.

If you’d like to try to see the black hole at the center of our galaxy, you will have to imagine it, for it’s shrouded by millions of stars, clouds of gas and dark nebula forming a curtain in front of it. Even if there was no curtain, you’d still be hard pressed to see it, since no light can escape their gravitational pull, making them earn their nefarious reputations of the invisible gas-eating monsters in space.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Black, Black Holes

2007-04-11T07:56:00.000-07:00

4/15/07 – 4/21/07
by C. Zaitz

One of the strangest, most compelling objects in the universe are black holes. The idea that something can be so powerful, so destructive, and yet invisible to us is very compelling. Ever since they were first speculated to exist, we have been searching the skies for the invisible monsters, the star-eating, gas-sucking anomalies of nature.

At first, it was very hard to find black holes. You have to get creative; you have to find something that the black hole is affecting. It’s like looking for the skunk that gets into your garbage every night. You can’t see it; it’s dark and you’re looking in the night, but skunks certainly leave clues behind. So we try to “sniff out” black holes, and look for the destruction they cause.

One of the best indicators of the presence of a black hole is a binary star system that emits X-rays. Binary star systems are quite common in the galaxy, and it turns out that often, one star is much bigger than the other. Big stars, like Elvis, tend to burn very brightly and burn out quickly. When massive stars die, they often become black holes. The companion star still orbits the “hole” left behind, but if material from the companion star happens to get too close to the black hole, it will get swirled in and “eaten,” streaming out X-rays as tidal forces ionize the infalling gas. We see the X-rays, and can begin to pinpoint the black hole.

There are different sizes of black holes, but the most familiar are the ones that come from big stars, like the star in the shoulder of Orion called Betelgeuse (commonly pronounced “beetle-juice” to the delight of untold numbers of elementary students.) Betelgeuse is said to be bigger than the orbit of Mars. When such a massive star dies, it generally ends up in one of the most spectacular events in the universe, a supernova explosion. Most of the mass of the star is violently distributed into space as giant clouds of hot, colorful gas. But the core of the star remains, is still very massive, and has no means to keep it from collapsing. It begins a journey that no force in nature can hinder, and it only stops until all that once was the star is found in one single point - the singularity.

One curious thing about black holes is their affinity for infinity. Laws of physics, as we know them, start to get wobbly when we get close to the “singularity.” This is the point at which what used to be matter has collapsed to a single point. This is very hard to imagine. How can a lot of stuff, with a lot of mass and gravity, collapse into a single point? And how big is that point?

Einstein’s theory of general relativity tells us that at the singularity, all the core’s mass is compressed into a space with zero volume, while its density and gravity are infinitely big! But quantum physics, with its uncertainly principle, says more reasonably that it’s a very large amount of matter squeezed into the smallest possible amount of space. Still, it’s a pretty quirky concept. Perhaps that’s why they are so very interesting.

Next week, we will talk about the even more curious super-massive black holes. Meanwhile, enjoy lovely Venus in the sunset and Saturn crossing the southern skies all night long.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Orbiting Fun

2007-04-05T03:31:00.000-07:00

4/1/07 – 4/7/07

One of my favorite websites is “Astronomy Picture of the Day” (APOD) - the images are just amazing. One recent image depicted the very slim crescent moon hanging above the blue-skied horizon of the earth. It was taken by the astronauts on the space station. I often forget that there are astronauts floating above the earth looking down on us every ninety minutes or so. In their free time they like to take pictures of the earth, and the one they took of the crescent moon is beautifully dream-like. Well, at least it made me day-dream when I saw it.

I thought about how fun it might be to toss little pebbles out the window and watch them burn up as they fall through the air and descend to earth. I would be creating my own meteors, and how fun is it that people on the earth below would look up and see my meteor shower. How many little children would be making wishes on the “falling stars” I was tossing down? Wouldn’t it be nice if there was a front porch on the International Space Station for visitors who are lucky enough to go up there? What a view from that porch swing!

Obviously I’m amusing myself with fanciful thoughts of being in orbit, but I bet someday it will come true. Why not? People pay lots of money for all sorts of exotic vacations, but what could be more exotic than a few weeks aboard the space station? Of course, it being a scientific endeavor, and being rather on the dangerous end of things, one should probably come up with a scientific experiment or two to make it worthwhile. It can’t be all solar-tanning windows and zero-g foot rubs. I think I would experiment with different fluids and how they behaved in space. I would be sure to bring along six-packs of various fluids, and perhaps some pretzels to interact with the fluids. I’d be interested to study the formation of bubbles on carbonated beverages floating in microgravity. I’d also study how the human body reacts to these carbonated beverages. I’ve seen pictures of the astronauts floating giant bubbles of liquid around the cabin, dodging and ducking to catch them in their mouths. I think that would be pretty fun, and I’m sure there’s some scientific value in it.

While I was up on the porch of the Space Station, I would be sure to take lots of photos. I’d try to capture a pebble falling through the air. I think it would look like a pebble for awhile, and then it would start to glow, and then I’d see a little blaze and then would see it no more. That’s my theory, but it would be fun to prove it. That’s what science is all about, right?

There is science going on up there. The astronauts have a barrage of experiments they tend, from growing protein crystals to live tissue cells. Life in low gravity is very different than anything the human body is used to. If we ever want to make trips to Mars or other planets, we need to learn how to counteract the atrophy of our muscles and the weakening of our bones. We have to learn how to maneuver in centrifuges which can simulate the effects of gravity. There’s a lot to learn about living in space, but I know that I’d be on the list of volunteers to spend spring break in orbit!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Of Great Magnitude

2007-03-21T03:44:00.000-07:00

3/25/07 – 3/31/07
by C. Zaitz

“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…” so which one will it be? People often ask, “what’s the first star?” or “what’s the biggest star?” or my personal favorite, “what’s the farthest star?” These questions tend to our desire to catalogue things, rank them, sort and classify. Maybe knowing the biggest, best, and brightest may be a way to make sense of the infinite and chaotic universe.

The problem with far away stars is that they are really hard to see! At the very limit of our view lie the most distant objects we can see; the quasars, with their light so stretched from the billions of years of travel that their spectra have migrated far into the red and infrared extremes. Quasars are strange objects; compact, bright and very distant. They seem to be the cores of ancient galaxies, most certainly with giant black holes at their centers. As of now, the farthest quasar we’ve found is nearly 13 billion light years away. That’s close to the time when we think the first stars and galaxies were forming. Before that, there was no light at all. So we’ll have to be content to say quasars are the farthest “objects” we can see.

What about big? All stars are big, compared to earth. Maybe you’ve heard that the sun a small star. In the great scheme of things, perhaps it’s not as big as, say, Betelgeuse or Deneb, but it’s just right for us. However, there are vast numbers of loftier and heftier stars than our own. Most of the bright stars in the sky would dwarf our sun. They are bright mainly because they are huge. We call the brightness of a star its magnitude. Stars have two magnitudes; the one we see, called the apparent magnitude, and the one it really is, called the absolute magnitude. Imagine trying to compare sizes of sailboats in a lake. It would be easy if they were all the same distance from you, but they’re all over the lake. You could classify them by how big they look, but that’s not really fair for the ones far away- they’ll always look tiny. Unfortunately, it’s very tricky to find the absolute magnitude of stars since they are scattered all over the universe. With sailboats, you might be able to recognize the type of boat by its appearance and infer its size from that knowledge, and that’s what we do with stars. But there’s room for error- what if the same brand of boat comes in 24’ and 32’ and they look very similar? Astronomers have several methods of estimating size and distance, but it’s not an exact science. So we’ll just say that Epsilon Aurigae, in the constellation of Auriga, is 2,700 times bigger than our sun, and that’s one of the biggest we’ve ever seen.

So how does one decide what the first star is? Are we looking for the first star that you see in the evening sky? This answer can be evasive, since the first star is usually a planet. Planets can be very bright, especially Venus. Venus has been greeting the sunset lately, and as twilight fades, its brilliance in the western sky is unparalleled. But it’s not a star. However, when you’re looking for the first of anything in the night sky, look for Venus. Its apparent magnitude is very great, and when it comes to just enjoying the night sky, appearances can be everything!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

What Goes Around

2007-03-13T19:12:00.000-07:00

3/18/07 – 3/24/07
by C. Zaitz

I’ve been giving a series of planetarium shows for fourth graders. I’ve heard a lot of interesting things come out of ten year olds, but today they stumped me. I was pointing out the planets that are visible in the early evening. Venus hovers above the sunset, driving light daggers into your eyes as you watch the glow of the sun fade. Saturn, however, lags behind and is only just rising to a nice height at sunset. It is in the southeast, whereas Venus is definitely following the sun into the west.

I told the fourth graders that it was 8:30 at night and I showed them the two planets. Then I asked them where Venus would be by 10pm. They were a verbal group with stretch marks in their armpits from raising their hands so much. I assumed they would say that Venus would go down in the west, like the sun, moon and all the stars. It seemed like a safe question.

Not so. Among the answers I got were, “it will go to the north,” “it will go back to the east” and “it will go south.” I could not BRIBE them to say it went down in the west. So I asked them what was really moving when the sun went down.

We talked through the rotation of the earth and I told them that we are spinning at 800 mph in Michigan. I asked them why they thought we couldn’t feel that motion and we talked about the reasons, such as the fact that we’ve always been spinning on the big earth and as long as it doesn’t speed up or stop, we will never notice its motion. Then to top it all off, I basically pirouetted until I got dizzy to illustrate the motion of the earth. That was my big wind-up. Then I threw it back to them. With excited, baited breath I asked, “So where will Venus be in an hour, my young friends?” I was sure that my antics and explanations had done the trick. But it hadn’t. Not even close. Somehow those young minds had heard or read something that had confused them about the motion of sky objects. And I didn’t know how to undo it.

So I laughed it off and we moved on. Later on the time came to actually move the stars toward the west. I took the opportunity to try once more, so I pointed to Venus and had them watch it as it sank down into the western horizon. I think they saw it. They looked surprised, but I think they finally believed that Venus would follow the sun down in the west. Sometimes seeing is believing. I know that the concept of the earth spinning is pretty abstract, and ten year olds aren’t quite abstract thinkers yet, but I thought that they might have noticed things setting in the west. When I realized they may never have actually seen Venus in the sky, I got a little sad. So to all of you with kids, take them out this month and show them Venus. Just point yourself toward the west at sunset and you’ll see it, clouds willing. And if you have a few moments later on, spy on it again and see where it went. I’m pretty sure that it will have followed the sun down in the west. But it’s always good to see it for yourself.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Moon Dust

2007-03-07T12:22:00.001-08:00

by C. Zaitz

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about dust. Not just the dust that accumulates on the piano or the blinds. Not even the dust mixes with my shedding dog’s hair and ends up big as my fist, rolling across the hardwood floor. No, I’ve been thinking of far away dust, the kind of dust that sheaths the moon.

I have the privilege of working with some students who are involved in special projects. One student is trying to measure the electrical charge of dust that has been exposed to ultraviolet light. She chose this project because it seems that dust on the moon is very clingy. Astronauts who went to the moon and walked around got very dirty, very quickly. As soon as they stepped on the dust, it jumped onto their spacesuits and clung for dear life, almost as if the little dust particles had been waiting for billions of years for a ride to earth and finally it saw the opportunity. She wanted to see how charged dust can get, even here on earth. In that process we’ve both been learning a lot about dust. It’s not very sexy, but it’s pretty important.

Moon dust has some interesting properties. It’s not like the soft dust we find around the house. That dust is made of flakes of skin, pet dander, dirt particles and lint, among other things. Moon dust, however, is craggy and jagged. It’s made when asteroids hit the moon and pulverize rock. There’s nothing soft about moon dust. It’s so sharp that it cut through the seals on containers used to carry it back to earth. You wouldn’t want to step on a dust ball made of moon dust.

One of the problems with moon dust, and even dust on Mars, is that it tends to cling to everything. Scientists have different ideas why. One of the most popular ideas is something we experience all the time; static electricity, or better said, a difference in charges. Think of that dust that collects on your TV screen. The screen gets charged when it’s on, and the neutral dust gets attracted to it. Now think of the moon’s surface. Radiation from the sun knocks electrons off the dust and the particles become charged. Once an astronaut walks through the dust, the difference in charge makes the dust veritably leap onto the astronaut’s spacesuit. Since the dust is so caustic, in time it can cut and poke into the skin of the spacesuit, which is the only thing protecting the astronaut from certain death in the lunar environment. The dust is carried into the lunar lander and can get into sensitive equipment, with the potential of causing disaster.

Studies on how to combat the “stickiness” of the dust and the potential harm from it ended with the Apollo missions, but the rovers on Mars are still hampered by Martian dust as it covers their solar panels and gets into the working parts. It turns out that lowly dust can be a very important issue in future space travel. It could also be a key into understanding how the solar system formed, since current theories imply that the sun and planets coalesced out of space dust and gas. Dust has been around a long time. Perhaps with further study, we will know how to deal with moon dust by the time we get there in 2018. I know I wouldn’t want moon dust ruining my trip to the moon!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Astarte’s Crescent

2007-02-28T03:20:00.000-08:00

3/4/07 – 3/10/07
by C. Zaitz

The crescent may very well be one of the most beautiful shapes of our lovely neighbor, the moon. The curved smile of the young moon after it has just passed through its shadowy new phase is a crowning jewel to twilight’s glorious robes of color, but sometimes that shadowy grin looks like a smirk, and sometimes a friendly smile.

Sometimes when you look at the crescent moon, it appears to look like the letter “C”, only backwards, more like a “D” without the straight part. But sometimes it looks like the letter “U,” or a birch bark canoe sailing over the horizon before it dips below the earth. I saw the moon looking like that last month, and I wondered about it.

It was an unusual sight. I wasn’t used to seeing the crescent moon in that position, and strangely I had just read an article about how the crescent moon looks like a “U” from latitudes near the equator. So why was our crescent moon looking like that, at our latitude, nearly halfway to the North Pole?

It’s true that near the equator, the crescent waxing moon looks more like a boat than a banana. It sets nearly straight down, chasing the sun to the ground. The sun does the same thing; near the equator the sun rises nearly straight up and sets the same way. In Michigan, we only see that on the vernal or autumnal equinoxes, when the sun crosses the celestial equator (an imaginary projection of earth’s equator onto the sky.) We remember that earth is tipped 23.5 degrees with respect to the plane of our orbit around the sun. If we project the plane of our orbit out into space and also the equator, these two circles cross at two points. One is in the spring, and the other is in autumn. We call these two days the equinoxes, and we are coming up on the Vernal or spring equinox. It’s at this time of year that the sun rises due east and sets due west. The moon’s orbit is only tipped about 5 degrees from the plane of our orbit, so it’s following that path pretty closely. So if the sun seems to rise and set straight up at this time of the year, it stands to reason that the young moon would as well. Thus we see our smiling moon.

In ancient times the crescent moon was the symbol of the Phoenicians goddess Astarte, known as Ishtar to the Mesopotamians, Diana to the Greeks and Venus to the Romans. Her “bediamonded crescent” was poetically captured by Edgar Allan Poe. You can see the crescent moon in modern times on flags and images from many different cultures. Muslim holidays and religious observances often start or end with the first sighting of the waxing crescent moon. The optimal conditions for sighting the young moon is when the angle that the moon sets is nearly perpendicular to the horizon, which happens to be around mid March for the Northern Hemisphere. The next young crescent moon will appear a few days after new moon, so look around the 19th or 20th of March to see if you can spot it. If you don’t see it one night, look the next. You’ll see the slim crescent grow, night after night, and be a witness to one of the more beautiful sights in the sky.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Waltzing with Luna

2007-02-20T19:14:00.000-08:00

2/25/07 – 3/3/07
C. Zaitz

Did you ever notice that when you gaze at the full moon, it always looks the same? It’s not just a round bland face; it has features. Some say it has a smile, or that the dark areas look like a bunny or frog or even an astronaut tickling the chin of a poodle. Next full moon, take a look and notice what you see. It’s what you’ve seen your entire life.

Maybe you don't miss the other side of the moon, but isn’t it odd that we never get to see it? It’s a sphere, so it must have other faces, but we only see the same one, over and over. In fact, no one had ever seen the back side of the moon until 1959, when we sent rockets around our cosmic companion. It turns out that the other side of the moon is very different from the side we see. There are no dark areas to make smiles or bunnies. It’s all “highlands,” with very few “maria,” the dark lava “seas” that make the shapes so familiar to us on our side of the moon.

Notice I didn’t say “dark side of the moon.” No offense to Pink Floyd, but technically it’s not correct to refer to the other side of the moon as the “dark side,” since over the course of a month it gets just as much sunlight as the side facing us.

So the question is: why do we see only one face of the moon? Is it because the moon isn’t rotating? Actually, with respect to the stars, it is rotating. If it didn’t rotate, over the course of the month we’d see all of it. It would slowly show each nook and crater to us. Instead, it rotates at the same speed that it circles us. This is called synchronous rotation, and it turns out that it is no accident. The majority of the moons in our solar system are synchronized with their parent planet. It’s all about tides.

We may remember that the moon tugs on the earth and creates tidal bulges in the oceans, but what we may not know is that even rocks and dirt feel the effects of that tug and experience tidal bulging. Tidal bulges occur in any body that is tugged on by other bodies. The result of these bulges is that they act like little friction brakes to the spin of the object. The moon is causing the earth to slow down. As a thank you, the earth is sending the moon farther away from us to conserve angular momentum. Meanwhile, the two are facing off like a bullfighter and his bull. The moon has already succumbed, but eventually, earth will slow enough so that one face will point eternally toward the moon as well. Then they will dance, staring each other down, until the sun itself burns out and goes dark.

This effect is called tidal locking, and is the opposite of rare in the solar system. Given enough time, most objects will have orbital and rotational resonance with their nearest gravitational partners. If that sounds like heavy duty physics, it is. But it’s also beautiful, because the whole system of planets, moons and the sun will be in sync, in a cosmic waltz, pirouetting at the same time, locked in eternal embraces. I wonder what the band will be playing for the dance. Perhaps it will be the music of the spheres.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Star-crossed Science

2007-02-13T20:21:00.000-08:00

2/18/07 – 2/24/07
by C. Zaitz

I recently had a conversation with high school students about astrology. Astronomy and astrology have been around for thousands of years, but the science of astronomy only broke with the art of astrology a few hundred years ago. Astronomia was the old word for the scholars who undertook the duties of observing and predicting sky motions, interpreting them and applying them to earthly events. In fact, the observatories and salaries needed for observing and predicting (astronomy) were often paid for by the profits made by interpreting and applying (astrology).

Most of the great astronomers we can think of were also astrologers. There was no shame in casting horoscopes. In fact, it was quite a lucrative business for some. Johannes Kepler, known to scientists for his three Laws of Planetary Motion, was a prolific astrologer while he wasn’t trying to figure out the nature of things. When his paycheck didn’t arrive from his day job as a mathematician and astronomer, as it often didn’t, he resorted to casting natal charts and predicting events to feed his family. Kepler sometimes balked at mundane astrological duties, thinking that most common folk were too superstitious and ignorant to understand the true beauty of astrology. To him it was art married to science, it was real, and it meant something. It was a taste of the divine. Galileo, a contemporary of Kepler and famous for first gazing at the heavens through the newly developed telescope, also shared Kepler’s use of astrology. In fact, though some use Galileo as an example of one of the first scientists divorced from superstition, it’s much more likely that Galileo, like his contemporaries, viewed astrology as an aspect of religion and world view, where what happens above happens below, and that the heavens are reflected on earth. He cast horoscopes and charts like his contemporaries, when he wasn’t spying on the rings of Saturn or the moons of Jupiter.

The idea that earth is a reflection of the machinations of heaven is a beautiful thought, so it’s no wonder the notion has been around so long. But it began to lose favor in the mid 18th century. Why did astrology and astronomy split up? Perhaps because science and scientific methods became so important by making life better and for improving technology that people no longer wanted to rely on an “unscientific” form of prediction. Astrology became known as an occult or superstitious science, and the Age of Reason did not leave room for superstition. However, it didn’t go away completely, it just moved to the realm of divination.

Does that leave astrology without a foot hold in modern society? Many of us read our horoscopes in the newspaper for amusement, and some of us take it a bit more seriously. When I questioned the students about astrology, the vocal ones indicated that they thought it was somewhat silly. But the silent ones may have had different feelings that they were embarrassed to express in a science class. Nowadays it’s considered almost ignorant to believe in astrology. Yet, I don’t think humans will ever stop trying to make connections between what happens “below” and what might be happening “above.” And what better way than to watch the beautiful stars and planets? I almost admire people who find connections between the planets and their lives. I have never been able to, but wouldn’t it be fun to think that everything could be explained by looking at the stars?

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

All This Useless Beauty

2007-02-05T12:07:00.001-08:00

2/11/07 – 2/17/07

by C. Zaitz

Sometimes the sky overwhelms me. It is just so beautiful. When I run outside to let the dog out, the sky just catches me until I don’t know if it is the cold making my eyes tear up or if I’m really crying at the beauty.

That beauty is what caught me at a young age to want to know more about the Universe. I think the sky is rather like art. Sometimes you can look at a work of art and its beauty affects you, even if you don’t know anything about the artist or subject. However, when you look a little deeper, things really start to open up. Perhaps the first time you saw “Starry Night” by Vincent Van Gogh you thought, “well, that really doesn’t look like the sky at all!” But then you learn that he wasn’t really painting the sky so much as he was using images as a vehicle for his emotions and whirling thoughts. You begin to see the painting as an expression of impressions, and then you can understand the beauty of it on a different level.

For me, the beauty of the sky has inspired me to learn more. I think a pretty sunset over a gorgeous landscape can be just that, a pretty view. It can also be more. If you look into it, you can get a further appreciation of the magic of a sunset. You can learn how erupting volcanoes can make some of the most beautiful sunsets ever. But they can also extinguish life on earth.

When I was young and saw the moon through a telescope, things changed for me. The moon is positively scarred with craters from collisions with meteors and asteroids. I learned that the earth has been pummeled as well, even more than the Moon since it is larger. I no longer believed that the earth was a charmed planet, and that no asteroid would dare collide with MY planet! I guess I got a dose of reality.

It’s nice to look at the beauty of the earth, to watch the shows on the Nature Channel or even go hiking or boating to enjoy nature. But there has been a lot of talk lately about how we have changed our environment simply by thriving in it, by harnessing the energy of the earth in order to make our lives more secure and comfortable. Though there is debate about the extent of global warming and its timeline, there is a great amount of evidence telling us that we are affecting our environment in a way that is detrimental to our continuation as a species. It’s beautiful and awesome to watch huge chunks of Antarctic ice falling into the ocean. There’s a certain amount of inevitableness about it. I suppose that’s why we don’t lie awake worrying about asteroids hitting us. Yet we aren’t dinosaurs. We are capable of good and great things. But if all the beauty that inspires us doesn’t urge us to look deeper into what we’re doing, it might all go away. Or maybe we will. All this useless beauty, if we don’t read into it, if we don’t look a little deeper than the surface of the sunset, or the story of the moon. Useless beauty if we don’t take the time to understand ourselves and our environment. And it’s such a fascinating story!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Baby Stars

2007-01-31T16:14:00.000-08:00

2/4/07 – 2/10/07

by C. Zaitz

One of the most magnificent things to “see” in the sky is the Great Nebula in Orion. However, it’s not so great to the naked eye on a chilly evening in light-polluted Metro Detroit in February. Your eye might detect a little fuzziness, a little hazy area around the stars at the tip of Orion’s sword. One of the “stars” is really the nebula, but the significance of this little blur in the sky might be lost by a casual glance.

If we look a little deeper, the fuzzy blob reveals one of the most incredible places in our galaxy. The nebula is a huge, diffuse cloud of gas and dust, some 1,500 light years from earth. The nebula formed from an even more diffuse cloud of molecular gas, slowly brought together into denser pockets that eventually formed stars. We now see pockets of gas and dust forming bubbles, or protoplanetary discs. Perhaps stars with planets are forming, or maybe a double star system will form. We already see baby stars in their formative years. Embedded within the wisps of colorful gas of the nebula is a group of four hot, blue stars in a formation we call the Trapezium, at least one of which is a double star. These stars can be seen easily with a small telescope, and they mark the spot where nearly 1,000 sun-like stars are just being born and are beginning to shine. It’s a stellar nursery, similar to the famous one we’ve seen in the Eagle Nebula.

Right now the area is clouded with dust and gas, lit in abstract colors by the intense fires of the newly born stars. Astronomers say that eventually the nebula will be blown away or absorbed and what will be left is something similar to the Pleiades or the Beehive cluster. These are called open clusters, and remind me of ripe grapes hanging in clusters in space. They are beautiful, but they relatively devoid of the colorful gas clouds that make the Orion Nebula so stunning. When we look at the Nebula with telescopes and make long-exposure images, we see an incredibly breathtaking work of art, nature’s best, hanging low in the constellation of Orion.

So how do you go about seeing the Orion nebula? If you begin on the internet, by looking at the beautiful full-color shots from the Hubble Space telescope or even large ground-based telescopes, you will not be disappointed. But if you start there, you may end there. You may never get the thrill of seeing the nebula live, in person, through a telescope. And there is something special about seeing deep-space object, or things outside our solar system, with your own eyes. Therefore, finding a winter star party is your best bet for seeing the nebula. Amateur astronomers are famous for sharing their expensive telescopes with anyone who wants to see the sky, and even some folks who were just innocently passing by. I have even been known to cajole people into taking a glimpse. Though folks may be tentative at first, it only takes seconds to be converted into a believer.

Who is throwing a star party at this time of the year? If you do a quick internet search for our local amateur astronomy groups, you’ll be surprised. As long as you bundle up in layers, winter star gazing can be quite exhilarating and fun. And there’s oh so many ways to warm up afterwards, sharing laughs and warm beverages with new friends.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Catch a Glimpse

2007-01-23T20:48:00.000-08:00

1/28/07 – 2/3/07
by C. Zaitz

We have a somewhat rare opportunity to catch a glimpse of a planet that usually hides in the glow of the sun. Little planet Mercury should be visible in the western sunset glow until about the 7th of February. You’ll need a pretty flat western horizon and a little patience to see the diminutive and shy planet, but once you see him, you’ll never forget it.

Here’s why: as you look toward the west at sunset, you can see our entire inner solar system. Venus, shining brightly even a half hour after sunset, will be the first thing you notice. You can’t miss her; she is the brightest celestial object after the sun and moon. Venus dominates the sky after the sun goes down. She was named for the goddess of love and beauty, for the obvious reason of her glorious glow. She shines so brilliantly that she can be mistaken for man-made or even alien craft. If you watch her for a minute or two, you’ll notice her steady light. This is no plane or UFO, it's the brilliant evening "star."

Once you find Venus, you should look a little down and to the right to find Mercury. This planet was named for the fleet footed god of the Romans, Mercury. As the closest planet to the sun, his orbit is small and fast. He whips around the sun once every 88 days. But it’s not his speed that makes him hard to see, it’s the fact that the smallest of the planets is never very far from the sun. When you look for Mercury, you’ll have to balance waiting for the sun to be low enough for the skies to darken, but not waiting too long so that it sets. Don’t give up on Mercury, though- he’s worth the wait. Seeing Mercury is like the thrill of seeing a rare but hidden flower or bird.

Standing on planet Earth, third from the sun, we can skim past our own horizon, looking past our own atmosphere and see Venus and Mercury rushing in their trips around the sun. The inner solar system is very busy, and relatively close together and dense, just as when the solar system first formed. Most of the mass and heavy elements literally gravitated toward the middle. These inner planets are dense, fast and alone. No moons tag along to hinder the orbits of Mercury or Venus.

Further out, and seen later in the evening, are the giant planets Saturn and Jupiter, and even Mars. To see Saturn, you don’t have to wait too long after sunset. Look toward the east around 9pm and you’ll see the giant gas planet glowing near the constellation of Leo. Leo reminds me of a backwards question mark, but to see the whole constellation, you’ll have to wait up till midnight or so. As long as you’re up watching the skies, you might as well wait till morning, around 7am, when you can catch a glimpse of the last two planets of the night. Jupiter will be hanging low near the glow of sunrise, and planet Mars, dimly glowing, will be even closer to the horizon. But if you have a clear view of the east on your morning commute and catch a glimpse of these planets, you will have seen the entire visible solar system over the course of one night. What more could you ask for?

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

More Than Meets the Eye, Part II

2007-01-17T15:23:00.000-08:00

1/21/07 – 1/27/07
by C. Zaitz

It’s hard to watch the birth of a star. Apparently stars like to form in private, shrouded by opaque clouds of gas and dust. When giant molecular clouds in space collapse from their own gravity, one outcome is a star with planets. Often, rather than planets, two or more stars form. Scientists wonder what causes one and not the other, but stars pull a self-made curtain around themselves during their birthing. With better telescopes, however, we’re beginning to see more. Over half the stars in the sky are multiple star systems. Here’s what we can see.

Sometimes we can detect a system of two stars, called binary stars, through spectroscopy. This is the study of the light we collect from them. Normally we can spread the light we collect from stars out into a spectrum so we can learn all manner of things about the star; its composition, perhaps its distance, speed and direction, and even how old it is. It’s amazing what a little starlight can do. But sometimes we notice that the spectrum from a star is odd. Part of it is shifted toward the blue end of the spectrum, and part toward the red. Shifting of spectra is a curious thing; it tells us that the star is both coming toward us and away from us. Impossible! Unless, perhaps, it’s not just one star, but two stars in orbit, with one coming toward us and one going away. In fact, this is how we discover many binary stars.

Sometimes we see stars dimming and brightening, apparently for no reason. However, as adults, we recognize that things usually have reasons, as bizarre as they may be. Sometimes when stars orbit each other, they happen to be in our line of sight such that they will eclipse each other. They are known as eclipsing binaries. One star, in the constellation Perseus, is a very famous eclipsing binary star. Algol is normally about 2.3 magnitude, easily seen with the naked eye, but every 10 hours or so it will dim about 68%. This is when its companion moves in front of our line of sight, Since the companion star is dimmer, the total amount of light we get from Algol lessens. Perhaps that’s why it is named in Arabic, “the ghoul.” Algol is often referred to as the winking eye of the demon.

If a star has several companions, it becomes a star system. A famous system of stars is the middle star in the handle of the Big Dipper. Just using your eyes, you can usually detect two stars instead of one. Mizar and Alcor are close, but not close enough to be a double star system. We call that a visual binary- they appear close in the sky, but are not that close physically. However, the brighter of the two, Mizar, is actually composed of two stars, Mizar A and Mizar B. Furthermore, Mizar A is composed of two stars, as is Mizar B, so we have a system of two sets of twins orbiting each other. Amazing. But you can’t see this with your eyes. It’s fun to look at Mizar and Alcor anyway and imagine the complicated gavotte those stars must be executing.

Look to the north to see the Big Dipper, and if your eye is caught by a shiny light in the west at sunset, don’t be alarmed. It’s only the eye-catching, attention hogging Venus, showing off in the fading twilight.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

More Than Meets the Eye, Part I

2007-01-10T08:14:00.001-08:00

1/14/07 – 1/20/07
by C. Zaitz

One of the more interesting facts about the night sky is that most of the stars you can see are not alone. Though they look like single points of light, there’s more than meets the naked eye. Some stars have companions that are too dim and small to see, and some have planets which are too dim and small to see. Either way, there is much more going on than we realize with those distant stars.

Our sun is one star that happens to sport planets. Planets are the result of a process that is not completely understood, so I will give you the short version, leaving out details in favor of getting the bigger picture.

A long, long time ago there was a cloud of gas and dust, the remnants of a star that once used to shine, but had long ago blown itself to bits and had created heavy elements in the process. This cloud was unimaginably huge, and all the little bits of it were moving in some direction. Eventually, the muddled bits tended to go in one direction in particular, flattened out, colliding and growing together under the force of gravity. Most of the bits came together in a great ball, which eventually became so massive that the inner bits were crushed and made to fuse, causing a chain reaction that produced prodigious amounts of energy. The sun was born.

Meanwhile, there was a still a great disk of gas and dust further out. The heavier stuff, like rocks and dirt and gold and silver, tended to be nearer the middle, forming the rocky inner planets. The lighter stuff, like hydrogen and helium and other wispy gases, collected further out in great blobs we call the gas giant planets. The little inner planets were heavy and cleaned up their orbits pretty well. Of the four planets, there are only three moons. Earth’s moon is the only respectable looking satellite, since Mars has two overgrown potatoes orbiting it.

Beyond Mars and the asteroids, things get more complicated. The four gassy planets developed rings and multiple moons. The rings are like millions of tiny, shattered ice moons. Some of the moons, and even some planets, have odd scars and orbits which indicate violent collisions, and possibly intense gravitational wars which have shaped the outer solar system. Recently, we have discovered a host of small bodies beyond Neptune which are now called dwarf planets. Pluto is of this realm, but more Pluto-like bodies are being discovered all the time.

As we look to other stars, we notice that a few hundred seem to have bodies orbiting them. These bodies are huge compared to our planets, but not big enough to be stars. Better telescopes will surely reveal smaller, more earth-like planets around stars. In fact, some astronomers estimate that nearly half the stars in the sky have planets. That’s a lot of planets. I wonder what those planets are like. Some are probably rocky and small like our earth. Will they house aliens? Will we someday meet Klingons? Or maybe the truth will be stranger than fiction. The exciting part is that someday we may be able to answer the question: are there aliens living on other planets. I hope the answer isn’t “no.” How dull!

Next week we will explore the strange multiple star systems that can also form instead of planets.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Sitting in

2007-01-04T19:38:00.000-08:00

I sat in with Jay and guest at last friday's broadcast, live Journal. It was pretty darn fun. A(No longer) archived on the WHFR on the website in the bottom right corner under "WHFR Journal Podcast Archive." (only the latest epsiode is there... but stay tuned, I'll try to get it all here one day) I knitted a bunch and they made me laugh. Well worth it! I giggled through the whole thing.

Pretty Pleiades

2007-01-04T18:07:00.000-08:00

1/7/07 – 1/13/07
by C. Zaitz

The Pleiades are so very pretty and interesting that they deserve some attention. You might know them as the Seven Sisters or might not know their name, but you’ve probably noticed them in the winter sky. They are often confused with the little dipper, but they are much tinier. In suburbia they are ephemeral, but if you are patient you can usually spot them in a cloudless sky. They are definitely worth knowing about, so let’s get to know them a little better.

The Pleiadian sisters are famous. Many cultures have seen and even worshipped the Pleiades, though they have been called many things in many languages. They rise in the east before Orion the Hunter, and he chases them across the sky all evening. The sister stars have even more mythological starry sisters, known as the Hyades. You may have noticed them as well, if you’ve seen the “v” shape of stars to the west of Orion. Look for Orion’s shiny belt of three stars and point up from there to find them. The “v” marks the face of Taurus, and the brightest star marks his eye. This star is named Aldebaran, which in Arabic means “the one who follows.” Aldebaran is not one of the Hyades, but the rest of the stars are. Some say the Seven Sisters are being chased by Orion, since the mighty hunter was notorious for having an eye for the ladies. If so, Orion will have to wait a very long time. The Pleiades are “running fast.”

Though they are often called “the Seven Sisters,” the faint group of stars is what we call an “open cluster” of many more than seven stars. Over 200 stars are collected in an area of space some 10-30 light years across. That is pretty dense compared to most of space, but open clusters are still less dense than the ancient globular clusters of stars we also find in the outskirts of galaxies. The Pleiades are known as the brightest open cluster of stars in the sky. Though they are not quite as pretty, the Hyades are much closer, “only” 130 light years away. The Pleiades are well over 400. If they were as close as the Hyades, imagine how spectacular they would be in our night sky!

The Pleiades were the daughters of Atlas, the man who was forced to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Pleione, a sea nymph. The daughters all had beautiful Greek names: Maia, Electra, Taygete, Alcyone, Celaeno, Sterope, and Merope. Maia was the mother of Hermes by Zeus himself, and all the sisters except Merope consorted with gods. Merope was wooed by Orion and is said to have married Sisyphus. Since she was not of the immortal realm, her star faded. Some say that is why we can only make out six of the seven stars today.

Scientifically we know that the stars are receding from us, and eventually we may have difficulty in seeing any of the sisters with the naked eye, but until then, please enjoy them with binoculars, or just with your eyes. You can see the pretty stars all winter long.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Time in a Bottle

2006-12-27T10:48:00.000-08:00

12/31/06 – 1/6/06
by C. Zaitz

I’ve been thinking about time. I celebrated Christmas with my parents in Adams Basin, New York. Adams Basin is a little cross roads, but it has a tiny Post Office, a church, and a Little Red Schoolhouse. It is also recognized as the place where George Washington’s drummer boy was buried. In 1976 I was a little Brownie Girl Scout, marching in the Bicentennial parade, when America celebrated 200 years as a nation. We stopped at the little hill cemetery where the crooked slabs of marble poked out of the ground like broken teeth. People who had lived so long ago were buried there, their names long since erased by rain and wind. I grew up in an old house where the land was rich with buried bottles of different colors and shapes that would turn up every spring after roto-tilling. Every time we’d find a bottle, it was an exciting link to the past and the history of the little burg.

This past year I have learned a lot about time and different ways to think about it. Geology has taught me that time can be read like a mystery novel. Rock and dirt layers write the past in paragraphs of time, with overlapping plots and buried clues, like my bottles. Astronomy often depicts time as an arrow. The point of the arrow is in your brain, and the feathers are at the object whose light you are seeing. Locally, time’s arrow is straight and true, traveling only in one direction, from past to present to future. The Second Law of Thermodynamics is an expression of how we all feel about time- it tends to flow, like heat or energy, from concentrated to spread out, like light leaving the sun.

However, we have found that gravity and speed can change time, as Einstein’s Theory of General Relativity has stated. Traveling at nearly the speed of light can really slow down time for you. So can getting too close to the gravity of a black hole. If you were standing at a distance watching someone “fall in” to a black hole, they would appear to slow down and stop right at the edge, and you’d never actually see them fall in due to the stretching of time. Apparently time can be touched, time can be changed. Time is perceived.

My education courses reminded me that time must be used wisely, as teachers have a lot of work to do in a short period of time. Organization and planning must be the tools of an effective teacher, or an effective person. In this case, time is a commodity, and we are always trying to buy more. Sometimes we all need a mini black hole to slow down time for us.

On a personal note, this year has been one full of changes for me, from job loss to full time school and training, and now I will begin student teaching. I am grateful to those of you who have expressed support for the work I do in astronomy outreach, both by writing and by teaching in the planetarium. It is the one thing I hold on to through all the changes, and if I could keep the warm feelings I get from sharing astronomy in a bottle, I would, but since the only way to really “keep” moments of time is to share them, I will continue to do so as long as I can.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Circle of Stars

2006-12-19T14:03:00.001-08:00

12/24/06 – 12/30/06
by C.Zaitz

What a lovely time of year to see the stars. It’s always been said that winter stargazing is the best stargazing of all. The sky is dark right after dinner, and is lazy to get bright again the next morning, giving us the longest nights of the year. With our mild winter so far, it’s not such a task to spend a few minutes looking heaven-ward.

What’s up there to see? Looking south, you’ll see the “wreath” - seven stars that form a ring in the winter sky. Some call it the “winter circle.” It’s so sparkly bright, I like to think of it as a wreath of candles sparkling all night long. Four of these seven stars are in the top ten list of bright stars of all time.

Let’s start with the Bull’s eye. Though it’s only the 13th brightest in the sky, it’s a noticeable star. Aldebaran is the name of the pink-tinged eye of Taurus, the Bull. Since we’re starting our circle with this star, let’s be sure we know which one it is. Use the three stars of Orion’s belt, from east to west, to make an arrow that points up to it. It’s the top star of a V-shape of stars, outlining the face of Taurus. From there, you can look back at Orion’s foot, a bright blue-white star called Rigel, from the Arabic ar-rijl, “the foot.” That’s one hot foot! Rigel is much hotter than our own sun, and the 7th brightest in the sky. Now we are going clockwise around the circle, and the next stop is the most serious one of all. It’s Sirius, the number one brightest star in the whole night sky. Sirius is also nick-named “the dog star” due to its position as the wet, shiny nose of Canis Major, the big dog. Now we are east of Orion, and can look up from Sirius to another bright star in a dog constellation. This time it’s the little dog, Canis Minor. The star’s name is Procyon, which means “before the dog” referring to the fact that Procyon rises slightly before Sirius, the dog star. It’s the 8th brightest star in the sky.

We are halfway around, and the next two stars are the Twins. Castor and Pollux, the twin boys of the god Zeus disguised as a swan, and Leda. The two stars are inseparable, just as the twins were during their life, so the stories go. At the top of the circle is a bright star called Capella. It’s very high up in the sky, and it is the 6th brightest star in the sky. Its name means “she-goat.” It is part of a constellation named “Auriga” which sounds a little like Orion, who is just below him. Auriga is a Charioteer, but he is holding baby goats in his arms, known as “the kids.” They are a cute little triangle of faint stars near Capella, who must then be the Momma goat.

And then there’s the famous star Betelgeuse, though it lies more toward the middle of the circle. It is the 10th brightest star in the sky. As the shoulder (or more literally, “armpit”) of Orion, it shouldn’t be forgotten in our winter stargazing.

I hope you enjoy the embracing wreath of winter stars, as you enjoy the embraces of family and friends this holiday. Joy and peace to you all!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Here's a website with a good depiction of the Winter Circle.

Light of the World

2006-12-13T08:56:00.000-08:00

12/17/06 – 12/23/06
by C. Zaitz

I’ll admit it right now, I think I’m in the throes of SAD, the seasonal affect disorder, or at the very least, I’m pining after sunlight. Usually I love to see all the lights and decorations at this time of year. I have strings of “stars” hanging in my porch, twinkling on and off, and my neighbors have decorated with strings and strings of colored lights, wicker light-covered deer that appear to graze, and those blow-up Santas and snow-globe scenes. Perhaps I’ve grown cynical, but sometimes it all seems like too much.

Light can be good, but too much of anything can be bad. We live in a place where bigger seems to be better, where we want more of everything. I have a neighbor who has pretty much covered every square inch of her front yard with some glowing bit of plastic or twinkling light. Sure, it makes your mouth gape, but a little of the surprise and wonder is tinged with horror, as we remember the energy dials clicking and our hard earned money flying right up to the sky. So this year, I’m wondering if we can all spend a moment or two thinking about the ways we can avoid wasting resources. At the risk of sounding like Scrooge crossed with the Grinch, I wish we could tone down the outer displays and work on our inner lights, spreading around cheer and goodwill in a more personal way.

That’s a tall order, especially for someone like me who is pining for cheer and light. But think of the benefits of being able to walk out on your front porch with your kids and point to the Pleiades, that beautiful little cluster of stars that hangs on the edge of visibility in our light polluted skies. Or to be able to see Polaris, the North Star, and talk about who might be standing under the North Star at this time of year, working hard for all the good little girls and boys. Polaris is not a very bright star, and can be washed out by our street lights. It is the end star of the Little Dipper, but most of the stars of the Little Dipper are also washed out by light pollution.

I’m not suggesting we turn off all our lights; that would be sad. But perhaps we can resist the urge to “outdo” our neighbors and find other ways to show our Christmas spirit. Here’s something you can share with your neighbors as you are coming in from your long days of working, shopping, and surviving. See if you can find Orion’s belt in the sky, use a finger to draw a line up from the lowest star, straight across the three stars and beyond, until you find another bright star in a V-shaped group. This star is named Aldebaran. It’s the eye of Taurus, the Bull. On Taurus’ back ride the Pleiades (usually pronounced PLEE-a-dees), the little cluster of stars I mentioned. If you have a pair of binoculars, take the time to look through them. I predict you will be delighted. They are prettier than any diamonds in the jewelry store, and they have a lot of history and mythology associated with them. Sharing that with your family can be priceless!

I wish you all a very merry and cheery holiday season, with or without lights, but mostly I wish you peace and happiness.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

The Elusive Green Stars

2006-12-06T10:07:00.000-08:00

12/10/06 – 12/16/06
by C. Zaitz

Stars come in different colors. We’ve all heard about “red giants” and “white dwarfs”, blue hot stars and orange cool stars. But what about green stars? Where are all the green stars? Our streets and houses are lit up this time of year with lights of red, blue, purple, green, orange and yellow. The stars come in those colors too, all but green. So what’s wrong with green stars?

Green is a great color. It's my mom’s favorite color, so I usually buy her clothes with green in them to make her happy. Green is the color of life, of plants and trees. Grass bleeds green when you cut it, and to me the color even "smells" like freshly cut grass. Green is the color of ”go” and avocados, girl scouts and money. Green is great. But not in stars. Our sun radiates energy mostly in the green part of the spectrum, so technically it would be a green star, if stars could look green. But they can’t. Why not?

Remember Roy G. Biv? Scientists have done away with color indigo for the most part, so it could be shortened to Roy Gbv, but that’s not as memorable, and hard to pronounce. Roy is the red end of the spectrum, and Biv is the blue end. Green is right in the middle of the light spectrum, and that is the problem. We can easily see when a star’s energy peaks in the red end of the spectrum. Most of the light we can see is reddish, so these cooler stars often appear red, even to the naked eye. The star Betelgeuse in the right shoulder of Orion is a classic red giant star. Very hot stars can peak in the blue end of the spectrum, giving them a bluish-white cast. The star diagonal from Betelgeuse in Orion’s left foot is called Rigel, and it is a very large, hot, bluish star. When you compare the tint of these two stars in the sky, it’s pretty easy to see the difference. However, since green is smack dab in the middle of the spectrum, when a star sends out most of its radiation in that wavelength, it is also sending out almost as much in the adjacent wavelengths. So all the colors- the reds, greens and blues- all mix together and make white. If we looked at our sun from above the atmosphere it would look white. In the sky it often appears yellow, or even red near the horizon. This is not because the sun has changed color. It is because the air is scattering blue light to make the sky blue, and the color that’s left when you take light blue out of white is yellow. Later on, as the light from the sun has to pass through a lot of atmosphere at sunset, most of the blue light has been scattered out of the sunlight, and only the long reddish wavelengths are left, giving us really rich sunsets.

If you want to see pretty Betelgeuse and bright Rigel, wait a little while after sunset, and you will see the three bright stars of Orion’s Belt. They are, from east to west, Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka. Betelgeuse is above Alnitak, and Rigel is below Mintaka. All three stars in the belt are white-blue stars, very hot and very big. You can look for a green star among the thousands up there, but unless you’re wearing green-tinted glasses, you won’t find one!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

What's on the Radio?

2006-11-29T12:35:00.000-08:00

12/3/06 – 12/9/06
by C. Zaitz

We’ve all seen the dish. They have popped up like mushrooms all over the place. Even colleges and universities have them. However, some dishes that look like TV satellite dishes may actually be radio telescopes. They collect radio waves from the universe. I know that sounds funny, as if you could hear the universe on your radio, but I should clarify. Radio waves are very different from the sounds coming from your radio.

When we point big dishes up to the sky, even a satellite TV dish, we are collecting electromagnetic radiation in the form of radio waves. These are very long waves that can pass through our bodies without as much as a tingle. One wave can be as long as a city block, or as short as your shoe size. The radio station you listen to has to change electronic signals into carrier waves, which travel through the air. When these waves, which are flying all over the place harmlessly, get to the tuner in your radio, they are changed back into a signal that is amplified and modified. These signals produce vibrations on a speaker in your radio. It’s the sound pressure waves from the speaker going in and out quickly that reach your ear and your brain interprets as Mozart or Green Day. Pretty cool.

Sound waves cannot travel in space, since they need a medium (air) to vibrate in order to travel. The beauty of radio waves is that all they need is the original energy source that set them off. They can travel from one end of the universe to the other. Sure, they’ll lose some energy if they travel a long way, but we can still collect them if we have a big enough dish. That’s why we build giant radio dishes. One of the most famous ones was built in an old meteor crater in Arecibo, Puerto Rico. Nature hollowed out a big hole for us, and we stuck a dish in it and collect radio waves from all sorts of interesting objects.

Another cool thing about radio waves is that they can penetrate clouds and dust. Many other wavelengths, like much of the infrared and ultraviolet waves, as well as gamma and X-rays, are blocked by our atmosphere. But radio waves can go through clouds, even clouds of dust in space. Light can’t do that, so our picture of the universe in radio waves can sometimes be clearer than optical images. So what do we look at in radio waves?

The sun is a great producer of radio waves. In radio wavelengths, we see sunspots and solar flares that we might not see in visible light. Beyond the sun, there are stars and galaxies that produce radio waves. In fact, some objects emit more energy in radio waves than in light, so radio astronomy has opened up a new window on the universe. Galaxies that emitted strongly in the radio spectrum were the first clues to finding black holes and quasars. The Cosmic Background Radiation, the lynchpin in the theory of the Big Bang, was discovered by radio technology back in the 1960’s. Radio astronomy is still going strong today, and since radio dishes are relatively inexpensive and easy to build, even some schools and amateur astronomy clubs have them. So the next time your hear about a radio telescope, you’ll know that they are looking at, not listening to, the universe!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

How’s the Weather?

2006-11-22T11:13:00.000-08:00

11/26/06 – 12/2/06
by C. Zaitz

It’s the time of year when people start wondering about El Nino and what kind of winter we’re going to have. When I was younger, I would roll my eyes when my parents would ask, "how's the weather." Now, because I’m six hours due west of them, it’s fun to see how long it takes our weather to get to Rochester, New York. Weather tends to move from northwest to east in the United States. What Canada brings us, we send along to them, with a little Ontario “lake effect snow” for excitement.

If we lived on the western side of Michigan, we’d get lake effect snow as well. ”Lake effect” happens as air moves over a large body of water and picks up warmth and water vapor. As the air moves onto land, it cools off. Cooler air can’t hold as much humidity as warmer air, so it precipitates out and falls as snow. Our weather in Metro Detroit has to cross the whole Michigan Mitten before it reaches us, and by then it’s had time to dry out. Our snow fall is much more reasonable than snowfall in Traverse City, since it’s the lee shore of the lakes that gets the brunt of lake effect snow, sometimes spectacularly. I remember some awesome snowstorms and school closings growing up.

Nowadays there’s talk about El Nino. Simply put, it’s a combination of ocean and air changes that effect climate in a far-reaching area. If the Pacific Ocean has a higher than normal near-surface temperature for an extended period of time, it causes climate changes not only across North America, but around the globe. The combination of the warmer ocean along with changes it produces in air currents cause circulation to change, trade winds to alter, and weather reflects the changes.

The west coast may get more rain, and the Midwest can be drier during an El Nino period. But in Michigan, we get a milder winter. I’m not complaining. By now you’ve probably guessed I’m not a fan of snow, storms, or clouds. After growing up with lake effect snow and bad sinuses, I long for hot, dry and sunny. I’d be happy if I never had to blow my nose again. But it seems with El Nino and the effects of global warming, Michigan just might be the place to be. Folks in California may be under water, along with the east coast. The Midwest will be on fire, but in Michigan, we’re sitting pretty. Michigan may be the new Georgia.

I don’t mean to make light of a serious situation, but the more we learn about the earth’s climate systems, the more we should be ready for changes. We have already seen rising global temperatures over the past decade, and carbon dioxide levels in the atmosphere currently surpass any we’ve seen in the last 650,000 years. If a lot of volcanoes happen to erupt in the next decades, we’re sunk! It won’t be a giant asteroid that does us in, it will be our proclivity for spouting CO2 into the air. Google “Venus” if you want to see what happens next.

Speaking of Venus, she’s going to make her return to the evening twilight in December, so keep your eyes peeled for her bright orb to appear near the sunset as the month wears on.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

In the Twinkle of a Star

2006-11-15T09:43:00.000-08:00

11/19/06 – 11/26/06
by C. Zaitz

Have you ever wondered why the stars twinkle? We all know the song by heart, but it never really tells us why they twinkle, twinkle. The song wonders what they are, the little twinkling stars. I don’t want to ruin the song for anyone, but there are answers to both questions.

We don’t have to go very far to study a star. There’s one about 8 minutes away (going at the speed of light, of course). Traveling 70 mph, it would take us 1,328,571 hours, or 55,357 days, or 152 years!

Luckily we don’t have to go there. We can collect information from the sun just by standing outside with a telescope or other device to collect its light. The information we gather tells us the story of the Sun. It’s a middle-aged star, fusing hydrogen atoms in its core to produce enough energy and light to keep its planets warm and cozy. Well, not all its planets, just the lucky closer ones.

All stars are giant collections of atoms, mostly hydrogen. Stars are so mammoth that the great pressures near their centers allow for normally repulsive forces to be overcome and for atoms to fuse into new elements like oxygen and carbon. In fact, without the stars’ atom-fusing abilities, we’d have been a pretty boring universe of hydrogen and helium with a sprinkling of lithium for spice. No mercury, gold or silver. They came later, from stars.

So when you look up at the stars, you can think of them as giant element-producing ovens, getting very hot from churning out planet-making elements like silicon and nitrogen, stuff that ends up as sand and air. Think of that next time you’re on the beach, looking at the pretty sunset. It all came from some star, ancestor to our own sun.

While we’re at the beach, we can also figure out why stars twinkle. Just look into the water. See how the pebbles on the bottom seem to jump and hop around as the waves wash over them? The water is the medium that the light must travel through to get to our eyes. Light likes to go straight in a vacuum, but will change speed or direction in thicker stuff, like air or water, especially if they are moving. The water at the beach is moving a lot, so the pebbles seem to jump around madly. The air is also moving and therefore “bending” light, but not as much, since it is much less dense than water.

However, there is much more air above us than below us. There is a veritable ocean of air above us, and we must look through this “ocean” to see the stars. The starlight may have been traveling in the vacuum of space for millions of years, steady and true, all the way to earth. But when it gets to our atmosphere, it gets jostled, nudged and pushed around by moving air currents. By the time we get to see it, starlight can be jumping around like a drop of water on a hot frying pan. In winter, the atmosphere is often more turbulent, so you will see lots of twinkling and winking of starlight. It’s annoying in a telescope, but can be very pretty to the naked eye. So while you’re humming the song, you can enjoy the very distant stars twinkling and making someone a new beach!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Games People Play

2006-11-01T05:56:00.000-08:00

11/5/06 – 11/11/06
by C. Zaitz

I was out on a night hike last week with one of my classes. We did not use flashlights, but there was a half moon fading in and out of stratocumulus clouds. The focus of the evening was on screech owls, so the moon was just a big sky-flashlight. Unfortunately, the owls were not in the mood to return the melodic and persistent calls of our interpreter. We did hear the rumbles from the constant parade of planes flying into Metro Airport and the distant snarls of a raccoon squabble, but otherwise it was a pretty quiet and uneventful tramp.

So to amuse myself, I played a game which I call, “identify the star without any other reference but the moon.” Over the course of the walk, one or two stars at a time would shine through the clouds. My rules were that I had to figure out which star I was looking at out of the thousands of possibilities, with no constellation patterns to help, and no directions other than my knowledge of the time of night and the position of the moon.

Could you do it? Where would you start? I saw a bright star pretty high up in the sky. I thought of the brightest stars that are up after sunset in the autumn. There are less than a dozen, but they are scattered over the sky. I needed to know where I was looking, and though our path was constantly changing and twisting, I had a compass in the sky - the moon.

I saw half a moon in the sky. My first clue: half a moon seen in the early evening must mean a first quarter moon, waxing. I knew that its shiny side was facing the sun, and though the sun had already gone down, the moon was still pointing to it. I couldn’t see the glow from sunset due to the trees, but if I bisected the bright side of the moon, the line that I drew would point to the sun. Where that line met the horizon would be pretty close to west, since in the autumn the sun sets nearly due west. It’s not precise, but close enough for my game.

Once I knew that the bright star was high up in the west, I had arrived in the ballpark. I knew that my choices would be from the bright stars setting in the early evening, probably one from the Summer Triangle. Most likely Vega, the brightest of the three stars of the triangle. At this point it was a gut feeling, because it also might have been Deneb, but it just “felt” like Vega. Of course, when the clouds cleared enough for me to catch a glimpse of Deneb, I knew I was right. I sat under a cloud of smug for at least 30 seconds, until I went on to a different part of the sky. By the end of the tramp, the whole constellation of Pegasus was visible and so ended my game. Too easy!

Later I thought about how it might not have been such a game for people through history who were lost in the woods. I also remembered how eerie it can be in the dark with strange sounds and naught but the moon to illuminate your way. I was glad I had made friends with the sky a long time ago.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Music of the Spheres

2006-10-25T10:16:00.000-07:00

10/29/06 – 11/4/06
C. Zaitz

It’s noisy out there in the solar system. The Moon is ringing like a giant basalt bell. Meteors and asteroids (and human-made spaceships) striking our cosmic companion cause its rigid mass to jiggle in waves that could be translated into sound, and if there was some air or other medium to bring those sound waves to our ears, we could hear the Moon ringing.

The Sun is also making noise, though from a very different cause. The end result is the same; both objects are oscillating in such a way that if we could hear the waves at those frequencies, we would hear them both “humming” like the high voltage lines that supply our homes with electricity. There are several websites that house the sounds of the sun as audio files. If you like watching snowy channels on TV, maybe you’d be interested in hearing the sun. Otherwise, I think it may be more interesting to note that if you were standing near the sun, you wouldn’t hear a thing. You’d also be vaporized.

Sound comes to our ear drums in pressure waves, transmitted through the air around us. Think of holding a slinky between your hands on a table, pushing your right hand toward and away from your left. You’ve made a wave formed by compressing and stretching the slinky, which is how a sound wave moves. Light waves are more like the sinusoidal wave you can make with the slinky if you move your right hand toward and away from your body. It’s a snake-like wave with crests and valleys. Light can travel through a vacuum like space, because it propagates itself. But sound needs a medium. That’s why we often say that there is no sound in space, because there is no air to transmit the sound waves.

However, that doesn’t mean that crafty humans can’t devise ways to “hear” all the energy waves in space. In fact, we are so clever at adapting information to our senses that we have been able to “see” and “hear” phenomenon like the ringing of the moon or the boiling of the sun. We play with the electromagnetic spectrum to see the universe in wavelengths beyond even what a snake or butterfly can see, and we stretch or compress the frequencies of space to hear beyond the range of even the perkiest Border Collie.

It’s true that the sound of the sun isn’t as exciting as Beethoven’s 9th, but we still get a lot of valuable information about the sun’s interior by watching and hearing it jiggle and vibrate. There’s a lot about the sun that we need to understand, so we keep our “ears on” when it comes to the sun. We also listen to empty space for any sign of non-natural activity, but so far, no alien top 40 lists have been heard in the frequencies we’re tuned into.

While you are listening to the sounds of space, don’t forget to look for comet Swan in the evening sky after sunset. Look to the west. If you see a bright star with a bit of an orange-y hue, you have spotted Arcturus. Look up from there for a little fuzzy spot. It’s possible you may see it even without a telescope or binoculars, but it’s always better to have a little optical help.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

Solar sounds can be heard at: http://solarcenter.stanford.edu/about/
Sounds of space: http://www.esa.int/esaSC/SEMLAJWO4HD_index_0.html

Simple Pleasures

2006-10-18T11:44:00.000-07:00

10/22 - 10/28

C. Zaitz

Fall is the time of year when we often feel most rushed. Work, school, and family can drain us, while the weather reminds us that harshness is coming. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed, and to let stress get the better of us. But I notice that every glimpse of the sky I get, whether it’s on the way to let the dog out in the morning, or just coming home after 10 hours of school at night, gives me a rush of peace. I know that’s a strange phrase, “rush of peace,” but I don’t know how else to describe it.

Do you ever get that? In our stressful daily lives, it’s rare that we get to take a deep breath and be in the moment. Maybe a glimpse of something bigger and more beautiful than the blocked up freeway under construction at 9pm on a Tuesday gives me a temporary disconnect from the stress. To me that’s invaluable.

So I thought about how the sky can give us pleasure. Even our light-polluted night skies can remind us that there are wonderful things more amazing than any bizarre behavior we experience in our daily lives. Here’s a few beautiful, refreshing things to think about when we catch a glimpse of the sky as we go about our busy lives.

First of all, it’s interesting and not coincidental that blue is a color that tends to calm us, and that the daytime sky is blue. I think looking at a clear daytime sky gives us a better chance for having a good day. Not all planets have a blue sky. Mars comes the closest, but its thin and dusty atmosphere cannot give any potential Martians the deep blues and violets of a clear fall day here on Earth. Rusty red, pinkish-grey and pale grey-blue skies have been “seen” by the robots we’ve sent to Mars. The ruddy colors come from dust storms, not a pretty sunset, so there is little chance for calm in Martian skies. Venus is a washout. Its thick, harsh atmosphere would burn and crush us before we could even open our eyes to look at the sky. We’re lucky to have such a pretty sky, and since we are equipped to enjoy it, let us!

What about the moon? Seeing the bright moon in the sky can remind us that even though things change, even as the moon waxes and wanes, she still calmly orbits, shines with the sun’s light, and follows the inevitable laws of nature. That can be comforting. It’s probable that without the moon, there may have ever been life on our planet. Thanks, moon!

And the stars, the glorious stars. They live and die in such long cycles that our lifetimes are naught but a puff of wind in a hurricane. They are basically element-fusing machines, and we can owe our existence to their efforts. The long dead star that gave birth to our own solar system can be seen all around us in the gold, silver and lead that were all created in a supernova explosion. Our 4.5 billion year old solar system is a baby compared with the universe, which is about 13.7 billion years old. So as much as we feel that there is no time, the truth is that there is plenty of time to enjoy our lives, even if it’s in a “rush of peace.”

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

Comet SWAN

2006-10-11T05:31:00.000-07:00

10/17/06 – 10/23/06
by C. Zaitz

There’s a comet in the sky, and its name is SWAN. It’s time to dust off those binoculars and point them halfway between the bowl of the Big Dipper and the bright star Arcturus in the evening sky. If you want to find Arcturus, you can trace an arc off the handle of the Dipper and “arc to Arcturus.” Both Arcturus and the Big Dipper will be skimming the horizon, so if you happen to sport tall trees or a roof to the north, you might not spot the comet.

Many of us remember the comets of 1996-7, Hyakutake and Hale-Bopp. They were fabulous and awe-inspiring. I was living in Yonkers, NY at the time, and remember lying on the hood of my car in the chill Westchester air, feeling the warmth of the engine and seeing the comet streaking its enormous glowing tail across the sky. You might remember where you were when you saw the comets, too. It’s rare to have two such beautiful naked-eye comets in the sky within a year. Comet SWAN is not in the same league with those comets, but it’s always interesting to spot one in the sky.

It’s not hard to make a “comet.” We can start with something to represent the nucleus, or the heart of the comet. Spectral analysis has identified major ingredients in comets: Water, ammonia, organic molecules, and silicates. For silicates, we can use sand, dirt, or my favorite: kitty litter. Then add a little ammonia. A good squirt or two of Windex will do. For the organic molecules use whatever is handy; Karo syrup, sugar, or a leftover can of Coke. Pour all those ingredients together and what do you get? A mess, and a very warm comet. We forgot the ice! Comets are cold. They live in the outer regions of the solar system, so far from the sun that they have remained relatively untouched, unmelted and unsullied for the lifetime of the solar system, some 4.5 billion years.

So to make a comet, it’s handy to have a tank of liquid carbon dioxide. You could use regular ice, or you could get a chunk of dry ice from a local supplier, but the beauty of the pressurized tank of liquid CO2 is when it shoots out the nozzle, the pressure is released, it expands rapidly and gets very cold. It becomes dry ice snow, which is easier to play with than a chunk of dry ice. You can grab handfuls of it (wearing thick gloves, of course!) and smush it into your comet. A little water for sticking and mixing purposes, and you’ve got a pretty, dirty, cold and steamy comet. As it melts, the dry ice sublimates to gas and makes a bit of a comet tail. Perfect!

When you look at comet SWAN through binoculars, you will see a bright nucleus and perhaps the fuzzy tail. The comet has just journeyed around the sun, so its tail is prominent. By the way, comet SWAN is not just another pretty bird in the sky. Its name comes from the Solar Wind ANisotropy experiment which first discovered it. We’ve noticed that instead of being the same everywhere (isotropic) the wind behaves more like a plasma ball- the kind you see in a novelty store, with filaments and structure. You can think of the comet’s tail being swept back by that solar wind as you peer at it in the night sky.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

Hot Pockets

2006-10-04T08:33:00.002-07:00

10/10 - 10/16
by C. Zaitz

It was just announced that two Americans, John Mather and George Smoot, won the 2006 Nobel Prize in Physics. They were doing their part to confirm the theory that the universe began in a wild, hot expansion that started from nearly nothing and ended up as the present gigantic universe we see today.

It’s been known since the 1920s is that the universe is expanding. Before that, we had the idea that the universe was a steady state place, where nothing really changed. But Edwin Hubble noticed that galaxies were rushing away from the Milky Way, and the farther away they were, the faster they were going. Either that meant that we were the center of the universe, or that the space between galaxies was growing. Since there was no reason to suppose the Milky Way was at the center of everything, we went with the second idea. We named the great expansion the Big Bang, and scientists got busy trying to find evidence of it. We looked and looked, but we couldn’t see the remnants of the Big Bang. Finally, in the 1960s, some one heard it.

It wasn’t very loud; it was just a bit of noise. Noise heard in a radio receiver meant for earthly communications. The noise couldn’t be accounted for from a terrestrial source, so eventually the sky was blamed. What the radio dish was picking up was the echo of a long ago, tremendous expansion of space and time. It sounded like mere static, but it was the ancient birth-scream of our universe, now spread out, tired and sore after a 13.7 billion year journey.

It was called the Cosmic Microwave Background Radiation, or the CMBR. Its discovery launched a whole cascade of modern cosmology, complete with satellites like COBE, the Cosmic Background Explorer. COBE was sent to map and probe the CMBR. Looking at the background radiation was like looking at the very young universe when it was about 3,000 degrees. In 1992, COBE measured the current temperature of the radiation. Over the past 13.7 billion years, it has cooled down to a mere 2.7 degrees above absolute zero. Even at that lowly temperature, we can read that radiation like a book. And it’s a pretty interesting story.

Interesting because what the scientists working on COBE found was small anisotropies in the CMBR. An anisotropy is a little weirdness. Little pockets of slightly hotter, slightly cooler areas in the CMBR to the tune of a hundredth of a thousandth of a degree. But even this small difference means something. We have long been wondering about galaxy formation. Star and planet birth is pretty well understood, but the formation of giant galaxies has been puzzling. These “hot pockets” may be a key to how they formed. Things get fascinating when we look at the anisotropies of the CMBR. Could they be frozen sound waves or harmonics from the beginning of the universe? Further studies from recent satellites like WMAP have given us a wealth of detail about the CMBR, and it has led us to the idea that the universe is not only expanding, but speeding up its expansion, for reasons known only to the universe as of yet. But we are hard on its heels, and in future years I predict more work on hot pockets in the CMBR and more discoveries about the origins of the universe. It’s an exciting time for all of us who wonder about the cosmos.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

Welcome Back

2006-09-27T11:52:00.000-07:00

10/3/06 – 10/9/06
by C. Zaitz

I walked out with the dog the other morning and WHAM! There he was, the eye-catching Orion, sparkling clearer and bolder than I’d remembered from last spring when he faded into the sunset. He’d survived the summer hiding behind the sun and had finally made it to the morning sky. With his usual bravado he stole the show – who can think of faint Perseus when Orion is there? His faithful dogs were yipping at his ankles as usual; the Great Dog Canis Major with the brightest star Sirius as his wet nose, and above him the Little Dog, Canis Minor, with the bright star Procyon marking his tiny head.

In a few more months we will see Orion in the evening sky. But now his early morning appearance heralds the oncoming season of dying. He sneaks a step or two toward the west every day. Every step westward he takes brings us closer to winter.

Of course, it’s really the earth stepping toward Orion, not the other way around. We are swinging to the part of our orbit where we northerners are tipping away from the sun, and to where the distant stars of winter can be seen. Think of the last time you were on a merry-go-round. Pretend you’re the earth and the sun is at the center of the ride. If you turn in the saddle, (assuming you’re sitting on a wild zebra or maybe a unicorn) you look out toward people watching you. As you go around, you can wave at your friends standing there. Further around you see only strangers, laughing and pointing at you. Just once per rotation do you see friendly faces. That’s like the earth and Orion, or any other group of stars. Though the earth travels faster than a merry-go-round, it has quite a bit more distance to cover, so we can see the same constellations for months at a time as we orbit the sun. But when we see some groups, like our friend Orion, that necessarily means we won’t be able to see others, especially the ones on the other side of the sun from us like the Scorpion. That’s why we say that most constellations are seasonal, and Orion is a constellation of the winter season.

I had mixed emotions seeing Orion in the sky. Though he is a very magnificent constellation, he reminds me what is coming. It’s almost as if he brings the cold harshness of winter with him. It wasn’t always like that. Orion and his companion, Sirius, used to be the heralds of the wet season, or the flooding of the Nile river. To the Egyptians of long ago, the flooding of the Nile meant good things like irrigation, food and survival. It was so important to them, they based their calendar on Sirius’ rising.

The time when you first see morning rising of Sirius has been called the “dog days of summer.” This is generally the hottest part of the summer, usually August. But it is difficult to see Sirius when it’s so close to the sun. Now is the time to see it best in the morning sky. Even as the sun begins to paint the morning twilight in colors, Sirius and Orion still can shine through. Their cheerful glitter reminds us that winter does provide the best viewing for stars! And that is something to look forward to.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

Learning to Love It

2006-09-20T08:56:00.000-07:00

9/26/06 – 10/2/06
By C. Zaitz

I’m taking a class called Environmental Interpretation. It’s like learning to be a guide at a park. We tramp around in the wet, dark woods of the Henry Ford Estate looking at plants, seeds, and berries. I consider myself an 8 on a scale of 1-10 for people who are curious about everything. The only reason I'm not a 9 or 10 is because of plants, seeds and berries. My challenge to myself is to see the beauty in ragweed, the artistry of a thistle and the genius of the black walnut. When I see a black walnut, all I can think of is how, as kids, we would collect black walnuts from the big trees in our yard and carefully place them in rows on the road. Bud the Driver would come lumbering down the street in the big yellow School Bus and run over the nuts with the giant bus tires. The squishy, popping sound delighted us, and the smelly, greasy black streak they made in the road created a glorious, terrible mess. Our hands were green and smelled like black walnuts for days. It was kid heaven.

Because of that experience, I always chuckle when I see a black walnut. But I don’t have any pleasant associations with ragweed or thistle. I don’t get a brain tickle when I think of marching through the wet grass to see it. I think about astronomy and how some people mentally yawn at the very thought of learning about the sky. The folks who are super-enthusiastic about plants must feel the same way I do about the stars. I find it hard to believe, but it must be true. Look how they get giddy talking about endozoochory seed dispersal. (That’s when a bird eats seeds and “disperses” them on your car.) Do I get that giddy when I talk about hydrostatic equilibrium, or the delicate balance in a star between gravity and radiation pressure? Egads, I believe I do!

On our latest march in the woods, we had the good fortune for the rain to stop long enough to see a lovely red-orange sunset in the west, paired with a Barbie-pink rainbow in the east. The sky was raging with color, the perfect antidote for my cold, wet soul. I’m a sky person. We all have our predilections, our tendency toward liking some things over others. I guess the key is to keep an open mind about subjects that don’t necessarily grab our fancy. Once I decided to enjoy the tramp, I was delighted by the wild orange impatiens, otherwise known as “touch me nots,” who’s spring-loaded seed pods exploded at a mere touch. I loved watching the huge heron glide over the pond in that glorious sunset, and marveled at the bats circling overhead in the enveloping dusk. I knew their little bat hearts were singing; there were so many mosquitoes, they could fill their bellies simply flying with their mouths open.

There was no chance of a moon or stars that evening. It was much too cloudy, but I imagined my friend Luna sailing high above us, and all the stars winking at me from behind the strato-nimbus curtain. I knew they’d still be there when I have more time to spend with them. Meanwhile I’m learning an important lesson: we can find things that interest us in just about everything if we are open to it. It’s a good lesson to learn.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

The Inconstant Moon

2006-09-13T10:24:00.000-07:00

9/19/06 – 9/25/06
by C. Zaitz

I was in a class recently where we were given some questions on general science knowledge. One of the questions was, “explain why the moon has phases.” Inwardly I squealed with glee; I had trouble with two other quizzes I had taken that day, but I certainly can explain the moon’s phases.

It may seem like a general knowledge, but few people really know why the moon goes through phases. After twenty years of anecdotal experience in the planetarium, I have an opinion about why. Moon phases are taught in school at an age where it’s very difficult for kids to understand them. In third grade, most kids are still concrete learners and making the jump to an abstract view of the solar system is almost impossible. If they could hop on the Magic School Bus and go into space to watch the moon orbit the earth, they would have an accurate picture. But they cannot, and they have to rely on inadequate 2-D drawings and verbal explanations. Even 3-D models are not always helpful, since their inaccurate scales can introduce more misconceptions. In the absence of truly understanding these models, kids tend to make up their own explanations. Once these are made up, it’s very difficult in later life to counteract these ideas. So many adults still carry their childhood ideas about moon phases. Even some teachers!

I can tell you that moon phases are NOT caused by: 1. the earth’s shadow on the moon, 2. clouds covering part of the moon or 3. magic. The moon phases are caused by us seeing the illumination of the moon from different angles as it orbits us. Since the sun can only light half the moon at any given time, there are times when we look up at the moon and only see part of it illuminated. If it is opposite the sun from us, we can see the entire illuminated face. That’s Full Moon. But when the moon is in a different part of its orbit, we may see only a thin edge illuminated or an egg-shaped moon, not quite full. There are times when the moon lies somewhere between us and the sun. That is called New Moon; her illuminated side faces completely away from us. So where the moon is in its orbit around the earth determines what we see.

A logical question might be, “if the moon were between the earth and the sun, wouldn’t that make a solar eclipse?” Yes, it would, if the moon were precisely between the earth and sun. But the moon’s orbit is inclined to ours by about five degrees, making exact alignment rare. So rare, in fact, that the next solar eclipse visible from anywhere near Michigan will be on August 21, 2017. If you have family or friends in northern Oregon, Idaho, Wyoming, Nebraska, Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina, Georgia, or South Carolina, now is a good time to secure their spare room. I anticipate a lot of excitement about a total solar eclipse in the heartland of the United States.

The dead, airless moon silently swings around the earth every month, completing its phases in 29.5 days. It waxes from the invisible New Moon to growing crescent, first quarter, bulging gibbous to Full Moon in about two weeks, and then it wanes through gibbous, last quarter, and finally crescent phase. The moon will be new on the 22nd, and every day after that you can begin to see the ever-so-lovely waxing crescent moon in the western sky at dusk.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

The Night Sky

2006-09-08T07:12:00.000-07:00

You can now get your Night Sky in a variety of ways. You can read it here, as always, or tune into WHFR on Fridays from 10-11am to the WHFR Journal. The host, Mr. Jay Korinek, has invited me to read the column for the radio broadcast which will be turned to podcast or archived streamed broadcast, accessed through the website.

Expand Your Horizon

2006-09-06T09:35:00.000-07:00

It's nearly autumn! It's the time of year when the scenery changes fairly quickly around us. Landscapes are mellowing and aging, turning different colors. Even the very stars in the sky are changing. Not only is the outdoor world changing, but things are changing inside, as well. Your local museums and planetaria have new programs to offer. Let’s take a look at what’s going on around us.

We’re beginning to notice the shortening length of day. The sun is sluggish rising, and before you know it, it’s fading off to the west to set. The summer triangle is still high overhead after sunset, but the constellations of autumn are seen at prime time- between 9pm and midnight. These are the constellations of Andromeda, Perseus and Pegasus.

Pegasus flies high across the southern sky, upside down and head first as always. Look for four stars high in the south in a great square shape, and you’ve most likely found Pegasus. The upper left hand star is a star called Alpheratz. Sometimes the star is also called “Sirrah.” The original Arabic name was “al-sirrah al-faras,” meaning “the navel of the horse.” The part that remains is “the horse” or al-faras (Alpheratz), but we all know it’s his belly button, Sirrah. It’s just funnier to remember. Andromeda looks like two long graceful antennae coming out of the bellybutton, which is an odd image, being that she’s a princess. In fact, if I were to verbally describe the constellations of fall to you, it would end up sounding quite strange. Perseus reminds me of a witch’s hat, and Cassiopeia the Queen looks like the letter “w” with a floppy leg on one end. Not a very graceful image for one of her stature. The king Cepheus is even worse; he looks like a miniature house ready to topple over.

The best way to learn the constellations is to visit your local planetarium. There you can not only learn about the stars, but also see pictures and hear stories that connect meaning to the star pictures. Plus you can meet other people who are interested in the world around them, and that is always a good adventure. The Vollbrecht Planetarium in Southfield offers day field trips as well as the excellent Friday night public show series by my colleague Mike Best, an expert entertainer -astronomer. His topics include neutron stars, black holes, asteroids, and the changing solar system. He’ll even talk about astrology and Pluto, poor Pluto. And you’ll always get Q&A time, handouts, and even door prizes. I will also be doing star shows there for schools and the public. Email me to book a show.

Cranbrook and the Detroit Science Center have excellent facilities, and you’ll always have fun there. But if you want a more personal tour of the sky, check out the smaller planetaria. The Henry Ford Community College Planetarium would be a great place to visit, and they will give shows for public and private groups. All these facilities can be found easily if you do a quick internet search for local planetaria, or even call 411 on your cell phone. I would love to get email from people interested in learning more about the night sky. This is a great time to try something new, to have a learning adventure, and to expand your horizon. Take advantage of the enthusiastic experts in your own neighborhood, take your kids or grandparents on an adventure, and maybe you’ll find out something new about the universe, or even better, about yourself!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

All in the Family

2006-08-30T11:18:00.000-07:00

9/5/06 – 9/11/06
by C. Zaitz

By now the news has been out and talked about, maybe to death. “Poor Pluto,” people are saying, if they aren’t saying, “I haven’t thought Pluto was a planet for years!” or “Who cares?” I had an emotional reaction to the news as well, though mine took place well after everyone else’s due to being incommunicado for a week. The news hit me hard emotionally, but as usual, my skepticism (cynicism) took over. I’ve lost things before. But a whole planet?

People are sad, mad, or glad. Some don’t care, and a few haven’t even heard yet. Most of us will go our whole lives never seeing Pluto. Who has even thought much about it after third grade? No one even knew it existed until 1930. There are people alive who were born when there were only eight planets in the known solar system. Think how exciting it must have been to read in the paper that a new planet had been discovered!

It’s a sad contrast to reading that an elite group of folks decided that it wasn’t a planet after all, at least not a grown up planet. Dwarf planet sounds diminutive, and rightly so. Pluto surely could never compete with a Venus or a Uranus as far as size, but it does have three moons, or so we think. Yeah, its orbit is wacky, and yes, it’s most likely closely related to other objects being discovered as part of a distant “band” called the Trans-Neptunian objects. The other “dwarf planets” recently discovered also fall into this category. All this is true, and the whole point of trying to classify things was to get a better definition of a planet. I don’t know if this has been accomplished, but regardless, I can’t help thinking that there should have been some nod to the emotional side of science. Because there is one; I’m convinced of it, as cynical as I can be at times.

Why else would folks get so upset about an object that has absolutely no impact on their lives whatsoever, at least gravitationally? Astrologers, for one, refuse to give up Pluto, since it lends such a dark and interesting presence to their readings! But why do we feel like something was taken away from us by Pluto not being called a planet anymore? Nothing has really changed. Pluto hasn’t shrunk since before the vote, and all the other objects we haven’t yet discovered are still going about their business of orbiting, just like the earth. They don’t change when we discover them, but we do. I was enjoying our growing family. I was even ready to call Ceres, that tiny little asteroid, a planet if it meant adding to the family. I strongly disagree that the general public can’t handle having more planets, that it’s too confusing. I don’t get “confused” when more species of plants or animals are discovered, do you? I was psyched that Ceres and Charon were topics of conversation. It felt like growth, like learning. We seem to attach more importance to things when they are part of our circle, our family. Humans are tribal at heart, and Pluto was part of our tribe.

Well, I don’t know if any of this helps, but I can’t ignore it, and I don’t have any answers about how to cheer up disappointed third graders, but I can say that I’m still glad it was all in the news and is still talked about in some circles. We’re all learning.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

Sometimes Bigger is Better

2006-08-28T07:41:00.000-07:00

8/29/06 – 9/4/06
by C. Zaitz

For the past weeks I’ve mentioned that Jupiter is the only planet visible in the evening sky, and that you can “catch a glimpse” of it after sunset. However, that’s been rather lame advice. There’s much more fun to be had with a telescope. But telescopes are expensive, so this is a great time of year to find your local amateur astronomy club and attend an evening observing session, or “star party.” We are lucky to have several fine clubs in our area. The clubs are friendly, social, and have access to dark observing spots, plus they always bring big telescopes so you can enjoy the benefits of Aperture!

Aperture is what matters in a telescope. Even though the word means “opening,” it refers to the size of the light gathering mechanism within. In most popular telescopes, it’s a mirror. Originally it was a glass lens, but glass is heavy and fragile, prone to cracking and chipping. Mirrors are still glass, but not solid glass, and only one side has to be ground to perfection, rather than both sides of a lens. You can make mirrors pretty big, and the bigger the mirror, the better the telescope.

Why is bigger better? What are we trying to do with a telescope? Many people think that telescopes “magnify” light, but it might be better to say they “collect” light. Objects in the night sky are very far away. By the time light from a distant object reaches us, it’s pretty faint and spread out. When you collect rain water, you use a big tarp and funnel it into a barrel. The bigger the tarp, the more drops you can collect. With telescopes, the mirror is the tarp. The bigger the mirror, the more photons of light it collects, and the better you can funnel or focus the light to see distant objects. The cool thing is that if you double the aperture on a telescope, you quadruple the amount of light you can gather.

I have just come into some aperture. I have had a 4 inch Astroscan telescope that my parents bought when I was young. Recently they arrived for a week at the cottage bearing gifts. For my husband, a beautiful set of hand made saw horses. For me, an 8 inch LX90 Meade Schmidt-Cassegrain telescope. I was flabbergasted. I named it Carl.

Through the Astroscan, Jupiter looked like a big dot with four tiny specks around it. Through Carl, Jupiter looked like Jupiter with its four largest moons dancing around it. It was impressive. We had a family star party: we toasted marshmallows in the campfire and toured the night sky. We saw M13, the globular cluster in Hercules, the Ring Nebula in Lyra, and the Andromeda galaxy, over 2,000,000 light years away. It was very cool.

Sure there are bigger, more expensive telescopes out there, but Carl and I will have lots of fun together touring the dark skies of Port Austin. Everyone’s experience of the night sky is special, no matter if you own a really big ‘scope or just go out in the backyard with binoculars and locate Jupiter in the western sky. The key is to do it, to give yourself and anyone you can drag out with you the experience of remembering how big and beautiful the universe is. But if you can borrow someone’s aperture AND get a cool explanation of what you’re looking at, well, that’s a Star Party!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

“Plutonic” Relationships

2006-08-16T10:22:00.001-07:00

8/20/06 – 8/26/06
by C. Zaitz

Well, it’s finally come out. The IAU’s definition of a planet! How exciting- we’ve all been on the edge of our seats waiting and wondering, “so what is a planet, really?” The International Astronomical Union is the world-wide collection of astronomers making up the body that has been the official arbiter of planetary and satellite nomenclature since 1919. And they don’t take bribes.

Historically and etymologically, the word planet referred to the “wanderers” or the “stars” that moved as the year progressed. As the planets orbit the sun, they appear to move in front of the much more distant stars. Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn have been known since people have looked up and noticed them. However, Uranus wasn’t discovered by telescope until 1781 by Sir William Herschel. Neptune was discovered in 1846 by Johann Galle, and Pluto is a mere baby, discovered in 1930 by Clyde Tombaugh.

Thanks to better ground-based and orbiting telescopes, we’ve recently discovered even more members of our solar system. Two more moons of Pluto have been discovered, as well as other small bodies like Sedna and Quaoar with eccentric orbits that can take well over 200 years to orbit the sun, beyond the orbit of Neptune. Pluto, by the way, is substantially smaller than our Moon. Controversy has raged about the definition of a planet, and much of it surrounded Pluto’s status. One of the more vocal opponents of Pluto’s planetary status was Dr. Neil DeGrasse Tyson of NYC’s Rose Center and Hayden Planetarium. His argument was that Pluto was too small to be a planet, and was most likely another Trans-Neptunian Body, such as those mentioned above. But who wants to deny that Pluto is a planet? It’s on all our placemats, mobiles and coloring books!

Here’s the quote: “The IAU therefore resolves that planets and other Solar System bodies be defined in the following way: 1. A planet is a celestial body that (a) has sufficient mass for its self-gravity to overcome rigid body forces so that it assumes a hydrostatic equilibrium (nearly round) shape, and (b) is in orbit around a star, and is neither a star nor a satellite of a planet.” Basically, if it’s round and goes ‘round the sun, it’s a planet. That means you, Mr. Pluto. However, small bodies like Ceres, traditionally called asteroids or minor planets, are technically now planets, but can be called “dwarf planets.” Pluto is now a double planet, joined at the gravitational hip with Charon, but is head of a new subclassification called “Plutons,” namely the Trans-Neptunian objects. 2003 UB313 would fall into the Pluton classification. That would make a grand total of 12 planets in the solar system, pending more discoveries.

As you can see, this is all getting a little more complex than it used to be, but a complex solution was called for. We ran out of names and ways to classify the new discoveries. Dr. Tyson wasn’t mad at Pluto, he was pushing for a clearer, more accurate classification scheme.

The vote on the new scheme takes place in Prague on the 24th of August. Stay tuned!

Meanwhile, nary a planet can be found in our August sky. Jupiter can’t escape the oncoming blast of light from the Sun much longer, and soon will be lost in the glare of sunset. Catch a quick view right at evening twilight in the west. Early morning birds may catch a glimpse of Venus in the east, though she is low and her light will be washed away as the sun rises.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

For more from the IAU, try: http://www.iau2006.org/mirror/www.iau.org/iau0601/iau0601_resolution.html

Seeing is Believing

2006-08-09T11:29:00.000-07:00

8/13/06 – 8/19/06
by C. Zaitz

Often we are torn between wanting to believe in something and knowing that things may not be just as we wish. I have been accused lately of being a “scientist.” Normally I’d be flattered, but when it’s said with a little grimace and a funny tone of voice, I figure it’s akin to a curse.

I grew up believing in lots of things from Santa to Prince Charming. I believed in Heaven and Hell, and I learned the doctrines and dogma that would get me to one place or the other. But when I realized that there were all sorts of good people who were never exposed to these doctrines and therefore were doomed, I began to reject certain ideas. Soon everything was under my skeptical scrutiny. The more I learned about the universe at large, and more importantly, the universe that each person perceives uniquely, the more I realized that the human brain is so complex and capable of such a gamut of perceptions that we really don’t need to go outside ourselves to find ghosts and myths and gods and devils. However, we prefer to have them externally located, present company included, so we keep looking for demons and angels out in the universe.

I listen with envy when people tell me about their fantastic experiences. I always try to relate, and my mind is always trying to understand and make sense of clues in the stories. I know I take a skeptical approach, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I listen to stories, but I don’t always buy them. I buy that the teller does, however, and it is never my intention to change anyone’s belief. I am guilty of trying to interject some skepticism into their thinking. Thus I get labeled “scientist.” If they only knew; a substantial part of my interest in their ghost stories is wonder. I wonder why no dead relative has made a nocturnal visit. Why haven’t any aliens abducted me? Am I so boring that no one wants to haunt me or capture my DNA for some future planet’s repopulation?

I want to believe. If some big-eyed alien crooked his three fingers at me and gestured me to go aboard his ship, I’d be up the ramp in a New York minute. I want to talk with dead people and see who I was in a past life. But I’m a “scientist” and I am not “open” to these possibilities, apparently. As my crop circle loving husband reminds me, it’s the “open-minded” scientists that make the big break-throughs. However, Kepler had to divest from his superstitious thinking to figure out that the planets don’t circle the sun, they travel in ellipses. Galileo, Newton, and even Einstein all had to distance themselves from dogmatic beliefs to look at the evidence. They key word for me is evidence. Without that, it’s not science. And while evidence can sometimes be subjective, scientific evidence is the best hope we have of ferreting out the mechanics of the universe. Cars don’t run on witchcraft.

Having an open mind is not a bad thing. Neither is checking snopes.com to see if the latest chain email is a hoax. If something can be explained without resorting to aliens and ghosts, then why blame it on a ghost? I’m asking, ghosts…and I’m free for a haunting tonight!

While I’m waiting, we can all spy Jupiter as it fades into the sunset. The other planets are too near the sun’s light to be seen.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

Dancing Stars

2006-08-02T10:44:00.000-07:00

8/6/06 - 8/12/06

by C. Zaitz

I did a google search for “arabic stars” recently, and I landed at a bellydance site. Funny, I had just visited my dance teacher, Princess Madiha. She’s a real princess, living here in the Detroit Metropolitan Area. Madiha's mother was of the Awabdi family, originally a royal family in Syria. When Madiha's grandfather, Prince Halil Awabdi, died in a power struggle in the late 1800s, the family lost all their power and wealth. Her mother later married into a farming family. Both she and Madiha are entitled to retain the title of "Princess" in memory of their heritage.

Princess Madiha is one of those special people who enrich your life in ways it takes years to fully appreciate. She not only taught me how to dance, but how to express the beauty in a kind of music that was new to me. She always said she didn’t have blood in her veins, she had music instead. She always tells her students that until the music and movements are part of our vocabulary, we’d always dance with a foreign accent.

I had been researching Arabic star names. The majority of star names are of Arabic origin. This is a little known fact, since it’s assumed that the Greeks named everything in the sky. Greek civilization was intensely interested in constellations and myths. Most of the constellations familiar to us today are of Greek origin, but the Greeks weren’t as interested in individual stars. It was the Arabs, between perhaps the 6th – 12th centuries, that catalogued and named many stars. They used the stars for time keeping, so they needed to know when individual stars rose and set. Western pronunciation has mutilated some of the names. Ibt al-Jauza is the origin of the name Betelgeuse. Its meaning is clearer than its pronunciation. It means the “armpit of the central one.” Betelgeuse marks the right armpit of Orion, the mighty hunter. His foot is marked by a star named Rigel. In Arabic, “ar-rijl” means “the foot.” The names are to the point.

The names of the constellations and planets come from the language of the Romans, Latin. However, the Romans adopted and assimilated the vast pantheon of gods and goddesses, heroes and witches from Greek culture, which in turn had assimilated images and symbols from even older cultures. The ancient Sumerians and Babylonians were the first to write down their ideas, but I am pretty sure that folks made up star pictures even before there was writing. Humans have a strong impulse to recognize patterns in things, and the sky is a good example of this. I’ve always thought it interesting that someone looked up at the teardrop shape of stars in the summer sky and decided that it looked like an Eagle. Or that the teapot shape of Sagittarius reminded the ancients of a centaur, a creature half-horse, half-man. But we look at the constellations with a “modern, foreign accent” and are ignorant of the very heavy and important symbolism the constellations once carried to cultures who relied on the stars to tell them stories of life and of time.

When you look up into the sky, you see the same star patterns that people have seen since there have been people, but the planets are always in motion. Jupiter has been pretty much the same all summer, though he is creeping toward the western sunset as summer heads down to the finish line. The other planets are basking in the Sun’s glow, and won’t be seen for a few more months.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

Badlands

2006-07-28T11:31:00.000-07:00

As hot as it will get here next week in southeast Michigan, it won't feel like it did this day of the Big Hike. Toasty, crispy warm with a breeze that drew the sweat right out of your skin. We hiked straight up the crumbling clay, down again and then marched along the open dry plain, watching for rattlers and cacti, wondering how long the hike really would be, and wondering if our spare water jugs would still be somewhere south of boiling in the minivans.

They weren't. This was the day Allison and I gave our paper on the K-T boundary. After the Hike. After the seeming endless trek into hot winds, dry grasses and astoundingly desolate landscape.

We managed to recover our wits in the five minute drive to the spot where we could see the K-T boundary. This is the famous edge of life, the time spanning the age of the Dinosaurs, ammonites and about 65% of other species on earth. Above the K-T boundary, there are no dinosaur bones. There are no ammonites, there are no psauropods. All gone.

So what do we find in the K-T boundary? Weird stuff, mixed with a more-than-normal amount of the rare element Iridium. Ir is related to platinum, and it's that rare. Not so rare in outer space, however, and it is most likely that the relatively copious amounts of that element found in the K-T boundary is from outer space. Aliens? No, asteroids. Is that what killed the dinosaurs? A giant wad of stone and dust from outer space? It's possible. Asteroid collisions do nasty things to the earth.

I love the earth!

The little white thing you see in the crumbling clay is a deer's butt.

Look what else the earth looks like!

Here's what it looks like on the inside!

It was nice and cool in the cave. Yes, that's me wearing a flannel shirt. I was glad I brought it to South Dakota in July. Though it was in the high 90s outside, it was in the 50s in Rushmore Cave. I prefer the 90s, but that's just me.

Later on...

I was teaching everyone the "Happy George, Sad George" trick with a dollar bill. Luckily Jay had the whole gamut of bills in his wallet so we continued on in the same manner with Hamilton, Jackson, and Grant...what fun. It was even more fun watching Rachel laugh everytime we did it! Jay even had Ben Franklin! Go Jay- drinks all around!

Not fun: Dr. Murray handing me the van keys bright and early the next morning. First shift? Sweet.

Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing

2006-07-25T11:29:00.000-07:00

7/30/06 – 8/5/06

By C. Zaitz

I looked at the Sun recently. I didn’t just glance, I stared at it. It wasn’t the mellow, orangey red, romantic looking sunset sun, it was the real deal. It was hot, bright, and burning high up in the noontime sky. I of all people should know better, but I couldn’t help myself. I was walking along the beach in Port Austin. There were high stratocirrus clouds covering the sky, but they were silky and see-through. They were transparent enough to create a gorgeous full circle or halo around the sun. I had sunglasses clipped over my regular glasses, but that’s no excuse. It’s just plain bad to look at the sun.

The sun halo was very striking. I looked as long as I could until my eyes started to water. Then I noticed a partial rainbow arc underneath the ring. I brushed the tears away and looked as much as I could. I began to notice people looking at me, and heard a whispered, “what’s she looking at?” I realized there were kids around and that I was setting a very bad example. But I kept looking up near the sun until things started to go pale. I knew I should stop, that I could be irreversibly damaging my eyes, but it was such an unusual sight that I kept sneaking looks.

I heard my mother’s voice in my head. “You’d better protect your eyes from the sun or you’ll end up with cataracts like your grandmother.” Yikes. To ease my conscience, I am now going to rant about protecting your eyes from the sun. I’m going to wallow in a hypocritical pool for one whole paragraph.

Eye damage is cumulative, like skin damage from UV rays. Eye lens cells are never replaced, so each time you expose them to the sun, you’re chipping away at your vision. You can’t see the damaging rays, and they don’t even hurt. When your eyes water, it’s more from the sheer amount of light trying to enter your eyes as your pupils try to shut down quickly. However, the damage really occurs when the ultraviolet rays enter your pupils. You can get cataracts and eye cancer from sun exposure, and it’s never too early to protect kids from the sun’s damage. Don’t be fooled by the kiddie sunglasses, either- make sure they have 100% UV protection. I most likely gave myself a bit of “sun blindness” or photokerititis from looking at or near the sun, and while the white-out effect goes away, the damage remains. I will most likely get cataracts, if I live long enough. No one will cry for me either, since I am admitting freely that I did a bad, bad thing.

That night, I looked up into the post-sun sky and saw three satellites overhead. They were moving at about the same speed like a small armada. Then I saw a meteor slash through the Summer Triangle. I was glad to have recovered my vision. I kicked myself for being so foolhardy with something so precious. I’ve had fairly bad vision my whole life, and you’d think I’d be more careful about protecting what I can. From now on I will. I promise, Mom.

Besides the distant stars, you can still see Jupiter in the evening. He is still King of the Evening, the brightest thing other than the Moon in the southern night sky. Venus can be seen around 5:30 am in the eastern sunrise.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

WHFR

2006-07-21T05:38:00.000-07:00

I have an interview on WHFR, a local station this morning at 10:20-ish AM. You can stream it at http://whfr.fm. I'll be talking about the planetarium and education. I have all sorts of thoughts about it. I hope they come out in English.
Update: you can listen to the podcast on their website.

Somewhere in Time

2006-07-18T11:27:00.000-07:00

7/23/06 – 7/29/06

by C. Zaitz

A single glance at the night sky can transport you back in time. The stars are very far away, and their light takes time to travel to us. Even the bright, steady light from Jupiter takes about a half hour to reach us. Starlight can take hundreds or even thousands of years to reach us. I realize that on the scale of our galaxy, which is what we see when we look at the night sky, a human lifetime is pretty short. But my recent week-long foray into geology of the Badlands and the Black Hills of South Dakota and Devil’s Tower in Wyoming left me feeling downright ephemeral. I was looking at rock formations billions of years old. I use the word “billions” all the time when talking about numbers of stars or distances to far away galaxies. But touching rocks that had been buried for billions of years and are now exposed and blowing away in the wind was something different.

The Earth is old, about 4.5 billion years old. The Badlands aren’t quite that old. About 70 million years ago, the rising Rocky Mountains and Black Hills dusted the lands to the east with sediments and sands. Back then the whole middle part of North America was covered with a warm, shallow sea. The sea grew and shrank over time. Dead sea creatures and dust built up layers of limestone, sandstone and clay sediments. Then, a few million years ago, the area of the Badlands began to rise, exposing 70 million year old sediment layers to the wind and rain. Once the clay and sand layers were dissected by rivers, the erosion process took over and created the incredible display of “badlands” that we see today. Hidden in the soft clays are fossilized bones of creatures that used to roam the Earth, such as the gigantic-headed Triceratops and three-toed horses that were smaller than Great Danes.

The granite intrusions of the Black Hills and Devil’s Tower are even older. They are Pre-Cambrian, at least 570 million years old, most likely over a billion years old. But some of the oldest rocks I touched were in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. The pink quartzite found there used to be sand 2 billion years ago. Time, tide and great pressure and heat formed the sand into rock. The rock was hidden for billions of years by layers of sediments, and now has been exposed to the elements through erosion.
Some of the quartzite ended up in the local roads, giving them a particularly curious deep pink color. Both the quartzite and the gas we were combusting in the mini van have been hidden deep in the earth for ages, but now we’re using these resources up in a matter of decades.

I touched some really old rocks, but the Moon showed us the most ancient rocks we can see. I was annoyed at Luna for spilling her light over the night sky all week long. She washed out any chance of seeing a dark star-lit sky. But the 4 billion year old surface of the Moon reminded me of how old things are, and how we are just here briefly, somewhere in a long continuum of time.

The class was taught by Dr. Murray of the University of Michigan at Dearborn. It was an excellent class, and has forever changed the way I look at rocks. And now I don’t feel so old anymore!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view.

Close Knit Stars

2006-07-08T08:25:00.000-07:00

7/9/06 – 7/15/06

I love to knit. I learned to knit at Mount Holyoke* College. If you say it fast, it sounds like “Mentally Ill College.” At least that’s what I thought when they called to accept me. I hesitated until I realized who it really was. Mt. Holyoke had a January term, where you could spend a month goofing off, learning to knit, or taking an internship somewhere like Nantucket Island at the Maria* Mitchell Observatory, plotting the light curves of a variable star called DL Cas in the constellation Cassiopeia. I chose the latter. I had already learned to knit watching Moonlighting on Thursday nights with the girls in Ham Hall.

On Nantucket I lived on hot dogs and sauerkraut, shivered along the frozen beaches of a deserted resort island, and studied glass photographic plates of a variable star. The big question I was there to solve: was the “light curve” (its dimming and brightening pattern) of this star changing or remaining stable. Plot after plot, I couldn’t conclude that the light curve was changing. How unsatisfactory. I read my article in the A.A.V.S.O. recently and I didn’t understand half the stuff I wrote. It sounded like a big non-issue.

But it is an issue. Many stars are somewhat variable for a few reasons. Supergiant stars sometimes get brighter and dimmer because they are huge and are shrinking or expanding, trying to survive by “burning” whatever they have left in them after hundreds of millions of years of hydrogen fusion, holding out against the inevitable crushing force of gravity. These are called Cepheid stars, and it has been found that the period of variability of these stars is directly related to how bright they are. Once you find a star’s period, you can figure out its distance by knowing its intrinsic brightness. Thus these stars act as celestial rulers in figuring out distances to objects.

Other stars have different excuses for being variable. Two stars can be knit together with gravity like those mittens held together by a cord. One star might be a medium sized star like the sun, but it might be in orbit with a massive star or a shrunken dwarf star. If it happens that a double star system is at the right angle, we can see the bright star dim for a few hours or even days as the companion star passes in front of it, blocking some of its light.

If you’d like to see a beautiful double star system, find the three stars of the Summer Triangle. The most northwestern star is called Deneb. If you look closely you can trace the shape of a cross, with Deneb at the top. The bottom of the cross is in the middle of the triangle, and is a “star” called Albireo. Through a small telescope, you’ll actually see two stars. One is a brilliant blueish star, and the other actually looks golden. Even though I didn’t go to U of M, I can appreciate the beauty of those two colors next to each other. (Sorry State alums, there are no green stars!) These close knit stars are one of the many beautiful sights to see this summer.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

(* - pronounced “Whole-Yoke”, and Maria rhymes with pariah. If the representative had pronounced Mt. Holyoke correctly, I wouldn’t have thought the funny farm was calling for me…)

Who Cares?

2006-06-30T12:59:00.000-07:00

7/2/06 – 7/8/06

By C. Zaitz

My husband and I have a little motorboat called "Who Cares?" We bought it from an older gentleman who was suffering with Alzheimer’s Disease. By the time in life he was ready to sell the boat, his ongoing mantra was, “who cares?” We don’t have the heart to change it. But every time I see “Who Cares?” on the back of the boat, I wonder about that phrase. I suppose he was frustrated at the inevitability of things.

The Ensign Planetarium will be having Summer Astro Camp again this year. The junior camp, for grades k- 4, will go from 9am-12pm July 24-26. For grades 3-10, the camp runs July 31- August 4th. The younger campers will be hearing and seeing Native American stories and explanations of nature, along with our scientific views of how things work. We’ll look at the sky and tell stories and make lots of projects to take home. The second week of camp is all about our solar system, its planets and moons, and some crazy things that happen to them like volcanoes, earthquakes and asteroid collisions. We’ll have fun demonstrations and more great projects to take home.

Sadly, Astro Camp will be the last program here at the Ensign Planetarium. The district is feeling the effects of Michigan’s economy and the lack of support for education that districts all over the state have been feeling for several years now. The loss of my job effects me and my family, but the loss of the Ensign Planetarium affects not only the district, but a far wider community of Metro Detroit and Windsor including pre-k through college students and everyone else who has ever been inspired by the view of something larger and grander than we see on an everyday basis, namely, the Cosmos.

The year 2008 would have marked the 40th year of operation for the planetarium. In 1968, when the planetarium opened, our nation cared very much about finding ways to inspire children to go into math, engineering and space sciences. We were in a fierce race with the Soviet Union to get to the Moon. The National Defense Education Act was passed in 1958 for the direct purpose of aiding schools in their quest toward educating youth, and the money that built this place came from those funds and that quest. We did get to the Moon first, and we have become the most powerful and technological nation on the planet. While that does not guarantee our survival, I do think that inspiring kids to be engineers, scientists, designers and thinkers can only help our nation stay strong. I am sorry that the demise of the Ensign Planetarium is just one event in a continuum of changing values in education. As we homogenize and standardize our children’s education, sometimes we leave out room for creative thought, for different ways of learning, and most importantly, we find we have no room left for the inspirations that lead children to be lifelong learners. In short, we no longer value wonderful, special places like a planetarium.

I would like to thank everyone in the community who has ever come to a show or listened to their kids talk about their trip to the planetarium. I hope that some time in the future the planetarium will once again live and breathe, and inspire future generations to be educated and wonder about their universe. Because I do care, very, very much.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view! (And send the wee ones to Astro Camp!)

Dive In!

2006-06-30T12:58:00.001-07:00

6/25/06 – 7/1/06

by C. Zaitz

We've passed the Summer Solstice, so now it's official. Let the brief Michigan summer begin! Hurry- we've only got about 14 weeks before we have to start bringing in the lawn furniture again. So find a lake and dive in!

People who don't live around the Great Lakes probably don't know that they are like freshwater oceans. You cannot see the other side, as you do in most inland lakes. You can travel for miles and miles and never see a bit of land. They are huge. They can be deep. And you can certainly get lost in them.

I recently bought a snorkeling set from Target. I wanted to see what was at the bottom of the lake. It's like a whole universe I hadn't explored yet. I was very excited to try them out- the mask, the breathing tube, and the flippers for the feet. I'm sure there's a technical term for them, but it amuses me to call them flippers. I had been cautioned by a friend not to put them all on at once, so I started with the mask. Ah!

Have you ever looked through a telescope? The first time you do, if it's aimed at something cool like Saturn or Jupiter, you get little chills and a jolt to the brain. It's really a planet, not just a bright point of light. It's a planet whose features you can see through the miracle of a telescope. When I first saw the Andromeda Galaxy through a small telescope, the idea that I was looking at a galaxy over two million light years from my eye blew me away. That telescope cost $300. The snorkel set cost $30. But I had a similar chill. It's beautiful under water.

I didn't see a single fish, nor any shells, but the sand was beautifully rippled and there were some interesting looking rocks and a Petosky stone. It was no Caribbean dive trip, but just the idea that I could see this underwater universe was a thrill. Then I tried the flippers, and I felt like James Bond sneaking up to the Disco Volante in Thunderball. The last piece was the breathing tube. Hearing myself breathe was another little jolt. How fragile life is.

How fragile indeed. When I looked into the midnight sky later that eve, I remembered the new universe that had opened up to me earlier, and the older, more familiar one that was above. Yet it was so vast and elusive that one could never really know it in a thousand lifetimes. How many sets of eyes have looked at those stars, at those constellations? In how many tongues had people told each other the stories made up in bursts of inspired tale-telling?

Twelve years ago, Jupiter was in the same spot as it is tonight. That is how long it takes the giant planet to orbit its star. When you see it, because you are bound to see it shining brightly in the early evening, think of the giant planet whose girth could engulf over 1300 earths. It holds enough gravity to shepherd 63 moons and counting, but you'll never really appreciate this giant globe of gas until you see it through a telescope. You'll see its largest faithful moons orbiting, and you may even see some stormy features of this incredible planet. Grab a telescope and dive in.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

The Great Dying

2006-06-30T12:58:00.000-07:00

6/18/06 – 6/24/06

by C. Zaitz

Some scientists would rather look down at the ground rather than up at the sky. I’ve never been one to dwell among the dust and rocks, but lately I’ve grown an appreciation for the science of dirt. Here’s why.

Sometimes the sky comes down to earth. A crater found near the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico indicates that a 6 mile wide asteroid or comet hit the earth about 65 million years ago, and not long after, lots of plants and animals died. This was the K-T extinction (Cretaceous (K) and Tertiary (T) periods of geologic history), where about 75% of the world’s species were snuffed out, including the poster-critters of the time, the Dinosaurs.

But there was an even worse extinction in the distant past. About 250 million years ago, nearly 90% of all life on earth was extinguished by some mechanism. The so-called “Great Dying” is also known as the Permian -Triassic (P -T) extinction. When 90% of all life on earth dies, scientists want to know why. Until now, there was no smoking gun, other than the usual suspects of volcanism, plate tectonics, changing climate, etc.

The latest news in “astro-geology” is that the location of the impact of a giant asteroid has just been found. Now we see the smoking gun, and it looks like the bullet was about 30 miles wide! Unfortunately the gun isn’t really smoking anymore- it has had 250 million years to cool. The crater left by the impact is hard to see. Over hundreds of millions of years, the ocean floor has subducted (slid underneath a continent). New ocean floor is created by the upwelling of lava. Therefore, not much of the original impact is left. A 300 mile wide land mass was discovered in East Antarctica by measuring the difference in gravity from one spot to another. Scientists overlaid radar maps of the area and the huge land mass fit inside a circular ridge. There are other suspects, however; massive volcanic eruptions also took place around the P-T boundary. But now geologists can compare and contrast these major extinctions and the factors that may have caused them. It’s pretty safe to say that when giant rocks fall from the sky, things go badly here on earth.

In July I will be heading west to study geology with a small group of college students. We will drive to Wisconsin, South Dakota, and Wyoming: The Badlands, The Black Hills, and Mt. Rushmore. I will be able to see the actual K-T boundary. It’s a visible line in the rocks. There is a high amount of the element iridium in this layer. High amounts of iridium indicate asteroid collision, since normal rocks from earth don’t have as much. Finding high levels of iridium is another smoking gun in the killer-asteroid scenario, and makes a good case for finding ways to prevent space rocks from hitting the earth in the future.

Knowing that rock-scientists don’t have much time to look up, I have elected myself “official night sky guide.” I’m anticipating dark skies so I’m brushing up on the harder-to-find constellations. Maybe we’ll see some meteors. I’ve heard that when you’re out in the wilderness, you can almost hear them burn up. I hope they do burn up. I’ll dig into the earth to see the rocks from space, but I don’t want to be under one when it hits!

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

Dead Reckoning

2006-06-30T12:57:00.001-07:00

6/11/06 – 6/17/06

C. Zaitz

When I was a teenager I read the entire series of books by C. S. Forester about a 19th century British naval adventurer named Horatio Hornblower. In one story, Horatio had to go for his lieutenant exam and was cramming all the necessary navigation mathematics and trigonometry in his head. Unfortunately, he froze during the examination and was failing. As he stammered out his response, he caught a glimpse of a fire ship- a wooden ship set intentionally on fire to destroy other wooden ships. On instinct he abandoned the exam and valiantly dove into the water, swam to the fiery ship, climbed aboard and steered it to safety, away from the British fleet lying helpless in the harbor. He eventually did make it to lieutenant, and even Admiral, some 10 volumes later.

I have since learned more of the complex navigation about which Horatio was examined. Finding latitude has always been a snap, as long as you can see the North Star, Polaris and have a sextant or angle measuring device handy. It happens that the altitude of Polaris in the sky is equal to your latitude on earth. That is because Polaris lies almost directly over the north pole of the earth. You can prove this to be true with a diagram and a little knowledge of trigonometry. In Dearborn Heights, the height of Polaris in the sky is about 42.3 degrees, and we know that our latitude is 42.3 N. You can get out your sextant tonight and check it out!

However, finding one’s longitude at sea was never an easy feat. To find it you must find the time of your local noon, or when the sun crosses your meridian, and compare it to Greenwich Mean Time. Of course, if you don’t have a watch or a cell phone, neither of which Horatio had, this is difficult. Before the invention of an accurate chronometer in the 1750s, sailors used a technique called Dead Reckoning to find their positions. It was basically a process of extrapolation. If you know how far you’ve gone since your last accurate position, or at least know how fast you’ve traveled and in what direction, you can figure out where you are now or will be in the future. Of course you must correct for wind and waves and human error along the way. Is it any wonder that Columbus’ voyage was a bit hairy?

Nowadays we use satellites in space to accurately find our positions, whether we are out on a boat in Lake Huron or driving from The Heights to Livonia. The Global Positioning System, developed and maintained by the US Department of Defense, uses more than two dozen satellites to send radio signals to anyone with a GPS receiver.

Modern day navigators often use old and new methods to maintain their courses. It’s always handy to have a working knowledge of at least ten or so bright stars in the night sky. All three stars of the summer triangle are considered navigational stars. Planets like Jupiter, though they are bright and easy to find, are not used for navigation, since their position changes noticeably over the course of weeks and months. You can watch Jupiter in Libra all summer, however. His large distance from the sun makes him appear to move slowly in the sky. We can enjoy his bright glow until mid August.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

Expecting the Unexpected

2006-06-30T12:57:00.000-07:00

6/4/06 – 6/10/06

by C. Zaitz

Have you ever had those nights when you wake up for no apparent reason? I had one the other night, though I have my suspicions about certain pets helping me to consciousness. Once I was up, I wandered outside. The stars were magnificent. I sighed out a breath in awe. The Milky Way sparkled overhead, framed by the three bright stars of the Summer Triangle. Arcturus shone its bright orange light to the west.

I’ve seen this scene a hundred times before. Ever since I learned to recognize the constellations, I’ve known the summer sky. So what drew me out at 3 am to see it? It was the prospect of seeing something I hadn’t seen before. There’s so much to look at; the more you stare, the more you see. The summer sky is much richer than the sky at any other season because we are looking into the heart of the galaxy. Since we are about two thirds of the way from the center of the galaxy, we see the majority of stars as we look in toward the middle. They are so far away, however, that they look like a creamy, blurry swipe of light across the sky. There is also a lot of dust between stars which obscures part of the Milky Way, like dark islands in a sparkling river.

The more you look at the summer sky, the more your eyes play tricks on you. Sometimes I catch a streak of light out of the corner of my eye. Meteors are always an unexpected treat, especially when you happen to be looking at the right part of the sky to see them. The dazzling light is actually plasma, or hot glowing gas, created by the intense friction of falling space dust. The sun is made of plasma, as is lightning. Flames are not. Plasma is much hotter than a campfire; the stuff over which you toast your marshmallows is not in the same league as a plasma trail left by a meteor. It’s the plasma that allows a speck of dust from outer space to catch our eye.

Sometimes the steady motion of a satellite captures my attention as it tumbles across the sky. Invariably, I imagine that at any moment something completely bizarre and alien will come spiraling out of the heavens and prove once and for all that we are not alone. On any given night there are thousands of telescopes aimed at many places in the sky. If the galaxy was teaming with life, we probably would have seen it by now. I imagine aliens would be busily commuting from star to star, but we see no such traffic. Maybe the aliens are sneaky. Maybe they don't have lights on their spaceships.

So far I’ve never seen anything unusual or spooky, but the chance that it could happen, that some flying spaceship or spectacular fire ball could reveal itself to me, keeps me scanning the skies. I’m expecting the unexpected. That’s what draws me out at 3 am, and always has.

We may never find a flying saucer or glimpse an alien up close, but it never hurts to look, and you can watch Jupiter drift across your field of view all night long. If you see Venus in the East, you’ve stayed up all night and it’s time to go make the coffee.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!

Musings

2006-06-30T12:56:00.001-07:00

5/28/06 – 6/3/06

by C. Zaitz

It’s hard to believe that the end of the school year is here. Graduation is upon us, and I’ll have to say goodbye and good luck to many graduating seniors I’ve known since I became the director of the Ensign Planetarium in 2001. Watching them grow and mature from the fun and silly freshman they were to the fun and more thoughtful young adults they are now has been an inspiration to me. I will miss them, but it is a joyous parting as they go explore their worlds and spread their wings. I wish my budding pilot, pastry cook, teacher, engineer etc. much luck and I hope their inspirations grow with their aspirations.

We all have muses- things or people that inspire us. My lovely sophomore friend Jaidaa inspired me to write about good people that come and go in our lives. Billy Joel wrote, “So many people in and out of your life, some will last, some will just be now and then. Life is a series of hellos and goodbyes, I’m afraid it’s time for goodbye again.”

Five years ago Mr. Richard Ensign said goodbye to the planetarium he helped build and take care of for over three decades. He had earned his retirement through years of hard work and passion that he puts into everything he does. I am inspired by him and I am glad to welcome him back on June 7th at 7pm to talk about his favorite things. I’d like to invite the community to come to the Ensign Planetarium in Crestwood High School that night to be inspired by him yourself. I’d also like to invite the community to support your planetarium so that we may continue to educate and inspire future generations of pilots and cooks and teachers and engineers.

In Greek mythology, the Muses had the task of inspiring humanity in the arts and sciences. Urania is the Muse of Astronomy, but also of Astrology and Universal Love. She was also known as a philosopher, and directed men's thoughts skyward, to loftier regions. She is sometimes depicted wearing a billowing blue dress tied with a broad sash covered in constellations. Urania’s name means “heavenly one.” Her name is related to the name of the god of the sky, Ouranos, or heaven, from which the name of the constellation Orion may also be derived. I think it’s interesting that the Muse of Astronomy is also the Muse of Universal Love, because when I look at the sky it makes me breathless with its vast beauty. I think of our planet and of everybody living on it as a connected, beautiful community. I guess it inspires a kind of universal love. Even as we come and go in each other’s lives, there is an ongoing connection between us. Goodbye is just a delayed response to hello, and vice versa.

Meanwhile, the time between goodbye and hello of the sun is getting very short, so we have to stay up late to see the daring duo of Mars and Saturn before they set in the west. Jupiter is up all night, but only early birds will catch a glimpse of the goddess of love, Venus. She’ll be basking in the lovely sunrise as you look out your east facing window.

Until next week, my friends, enjoy the view!