The March weather has been unseasonably chilly, but last week it finally warmed up enough to enjoy the night sky. You remember the night sky, right? That eternally dark void that looms overhead for much of the long winter? That vast vault of space that we ignore as we rush into the house after work or a trip to the store?
It was my daughter Emily, an antsy eight-year old, who convinced me to go outside and take a look. "Dad," she said, "I saw this robot thing up in the sky. It's really cool, you've got to see it!"
From our front yard, the robot was easy to find. For millennia, it's been known by Greek, Arab and Chinese astronomers as the Great Hunter -- the constellation Orion. I told Emily about the dagger that hangs from Orion's three-starred belt. And about Orion's brightest stars, Betelgeuse and Rigel. I also pointed out Sirius, the dog star that hunts at Orion's feet and Lepus the rabbit, and then I ...
"Yeah," Emily interrupted, a bit unconvinced. "But it still looks like a robot."
And she's right. For that matter, Orion also resembles a football referee with his arms raised to signal a touchdown. But with low-tech stargazing, that's part of the game. The expert answer doesn't have to be your answer. If you think, as I do, that the constellation Auriga looks more like home plate than it does some deity on a chariot, who's to say you're wrong?
Many stargazers don't even use a telescope. I know: the one I got for Christmas a few years back now gathers dust webs in the barn. For beginners, telescopes are actually a barrier because they focus on a narrow point in the sky. You can't learn to identify constellations one star at a time. You've got to scan the whole horizon -- much as a barefoot, goat-herding astronomer would have done on the plains of ancient Arabia.
Our Digital Age knowledge of course helps. You can download a free on-line star chart, and with that, locate dozens of constellations with the naked eye. Just start with an easy constellation like Orion, then stairstep your way to others in that quadrant of the universe.
That's what Emily and I did as we looked north to find the Big Dipper. It was here -- and dads live for such moments -- that she recalled something I'd said a year ago: "Where's the big W -- Cassie-something, the one that's chained to a rock?" We found the W, Cassiopeia, although it's actually her daugher, Andromeda, who's chained nearby. But she'll be detained there for several light years, so Emily's got plenty of time to get her facts straight.
For lay people, the sciences can seem distant and cold-hearted; bound by facts and drained of emotion and humanity. With the stars, we've struck a compromise. Today's astronomers may use the Hubble telescope to discover galaxies, black holes and nebula that go by lifeless labels such as M-42. Yet we still call our beloved constellations by some of the oldest names of all. Long after I'm gone, I hope these legends, writ large on the starry scroll of the sky, will help my daughter find joy and wonder in the night.
It was my daughter Emily, an antsy eight-year old, who convinced me to go outside and take a look. "Dad," she said, "I saw this robot thing up in the sky. It's really cool, you've got to see it!"
From our front yard, the robot was easy to find. For millennia, it's been known by Greek, Arab and Chinese astronomers as the Great Hunter -- the constellation Orion. I told Emily about the dagger that hangs from Orion's three-starred belt. And about Orion's brightest stars, Betelgeuse and Rigel. I also pointed out Sirius, the dog star that hunts at Orion's feet and Lepus the rabbit, and then I ...
"Yeah," Emily interrupted, a bit unconvinced. "But it still looks like a robot."
And she's right. For that matter, Orion also resembles a football referee with his arms raised to signal a touchdown. But with low-tech stargazing, that's part of the game. The expert answer doesn't have to be your answer. If you think, as I do, that the constellation Auriga looks more like home plate than it does some deity on a chariot, who's to say you're wrong?
Many stargazers don't even use a telescope. I know: the one I got for Christmas a few years back now gathers dust webs in the barn. For beginners, telescopes are actually a barrier because they focus on a narrow point in the sky. You can't learn to identify constellations one star at a time. You've got to scan the whole horizon -- much as a barefoot, goat-herding astronomer would have done on the plains of ancient Arabia.
Our Digital Age knowledge of course helps. You can download a free on-line star chart, and with that, locate dozens of constellations with the naked eye. Just start with an easy constellation like Orion, then stairstep your way to others in that quadrant of the universe.
That's what Emily and I did as we looked north to find the Big Dipper. It was here -- and dads live for such moments -- that she recalled something I'd said a year ago: "Where's the big W -- Cassie-something, the one that's chained to a rock?" We found the W, Cassiopeia, although it's actually her daugher, Andromeda, who's chained nearby. But she'll be detained there for several light years, so Emily's got plenty of time to get her facts straight.
For lay people, the sciences can seem distant and cold-hearted; bound by facts and drained of emotion and humanity. With the stars, we've struck a compromise. Today's astronomers may use the Hubble telescope to discover galaxies, black holes and nebula that go by lifeless labels such as M-42. Yet we still call our beloved constellations by some of the oldest names of all. Long after I'm gone, I hope these legends, writ large on the starry scroll of the sky, will help my daughter find joy and wonder in the night.
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