street-corner astronomy
[I'm due a real post, maybe today or tomorrow. But I'm going through old magazines, came across this, and felt I ought to share it or at least save it for myself before the magazine gets tossed. So this is from Astronomy magazine, October 2007, by Phil Scott. and I hope someone else out there loves it as much as I did.]
Thursday evening. In New York City they call it "the new Friday," meaning the night when everyone gets an early start on the weekend. Jeffrey Jacobs sets up his 8-inch Newtonian telescope on the northwest corner of Bleecker Street and 6th Avenue in Greenwich Village. Here, the high-rises sit low, and Jacobs focuses his telescope on the Moon, now making its debut in the east. Then, he violates an unwritten New York City law and starts talking to strangers.
"Come see the Moon," he says in a raspy voice. "Come see the Moon."
People try to ignore him. A man walks past, holding his daughter's hand.
"Come take a look at the Moon," Jacobs beckons. The man pauses, suspicious, and tries to keep going. But his daughter springs on her tippy-toes like excited kids do.
"Without touching the scope, just move up and slowly look with one eye," Jacobs says. "What do you see?"
"It looks like it could fall," she says. "I have a book about the sky."
"That's great," Jacobs says. He's age 61, genteel and dignified with his wire-rimmed glasses and dark jacket.
"She got a book about the stars and the sky for her birthday," Dad explains.
"I just turned five," she says.
"Tell him thank you," Dad says.
"Thank you," she says.
"You're very welcome," Jacobs replies, and hands her a leaflet about the sky he brought with him.
"Come see the Moon," he says, adjusting the scope. A few people look at him but keep walking. "Come see the Moon." A man in a gray coat stops.
"What's your purpose?" Gray Coat asks.
"It's a public service," Jacobs explains. "Sidewalk astronomy. We're looking at the Moon tonight," he says. Gray Coat steps up to the eyepiece and looks intently. "This is the best I've ever seen it. Why do we only see one side?"
"The gravitational pull of the Earth over billions of years has stopped the Moon from spinning," Jacobs explains. "It's dancing with us, and we're telling it we want to look at its face all the time."
He re-centers the telescope. "Look at the crater near the top." Gray Coat concentrates on the eyepiece. "It's named Tycho, after the Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe," Jacobs says. "The wall measures thousands of feet high." Gray Coat stares. "See the rays emanating from the crater? They're formed from glass beads. Some of the rays measure 1,000 miles long. That's the distance from New York to Chicago."
A red-haired man wearing a red jacket jabbers obliviously into his cell phone. He stops in front of the telescope, waiting for the light to turn green. "Come look at the Moon," Jacobs tells him. Red Jacket turns around, a little stunned. "Okay," he says, dialing another number.
He closes the phone and steps up to the eyepiece. "Wow," he says. "Wow ... wow. Why are you doing this?"
"Just as a public service," Jacobs says.
"Thank you very much. It's funny, during the blackout we slept on the roof and I said, 'When was the last time you saw a sky full of stars in Manhattan?'" He opens up the phone to make another call. "I saw the Moon. Through a telescope. What? Seriously."
"Hey, didn't I see you two years ago in the East Village, on Houston?" a thin, dark-haired man asks. "You were showing Jupiter then."
"Yes, that was me." They shake hands. "Tonight it's the Moon. Take a look."
He does. A woman with red hair and a knee-length coat walks up.
"Can I look? Cool." She puts her eye on the lens. "Whoa! How cool!"
"Yes it is, and it's yours," Jacobs says.
"Oh. Wow. Wow! It looks so close."
"It's about 240,000 miles away."
"Can you see more the higher you are? I used to live in Santa Fe and I'd see maybe 15 shooting stars a night," she says.
"Were they in August or November?"
"I guess November."
"They're called the Leonids." He explains the Leonid meteor shower and hands her the leaflet.
"One more question. Is the Moon in waning gibbous or waxing gibbous phase?"
"Good question! It's waxing."
"Thank you!" She walks away backward, then whirls. "Goodbye!"
Another woman strides by with a yellow Labrador retriever on a leash. The lab wears a pumpkin-colored bandana tied around its neck that vaguely matches the woman's baseball cap and jacket. The dog sniffs around the scope's mount.
"What is that?"
"A telescope. We're looking at the Moon." She peers down the tube. "Lean over here, look into the eyepiece."
"Wow!"
"That's the right noise."
"Wow! What's so different about it tonight?"
"Just that I'm here with a high-powered telescope."
"Only in New York could you come outside and see a telescope and an astronomer on the corner of the street," she says, the dog pulling her away to sniff at trees. "Thanks for doing that. That's very great."
"What are you looking at?" a young man in a dark ski cap asks.
"We're looking at the Moon."
"Does it cost anything?" Jacobs shakes his head and re-centers the telescope.
"Nothing in this city is free."
"This is."
"Cool." He looks. "Amazing! Quick question. I'm looking for Greenwich Avenue and Perry."
"Go straight up here. Turn left at the old women's prison."
"There's a women's prison here?"
"Was. It's a park now."
"What prompted you to do this?"
Jacobs tells him about John Dobson. A one-time monk, Dobson, 92, built his first telescope in 1956 out of a junk-store lens and an eyepiece salvaged from Zeiss binoculars. Then he turned it on the third-quarter Moon and thought, "Everybody's got to see this." So Dobson carted his telescope to the sidewalk, and handed out plans for building cheap scopes using trashed cardboard tubes, hand-ground mirrors, and the simple "alt-azimuth" mount that's now named after him.
"He challenged other astronomers to take their scopes out of their backyards and onto the street corner, and be a public service," Jacobs says. "To talk about the universe and remind people where we live. Because what we see every day is nothing like where we really live."
Where we really live is not this small intersection in the Village. Where we really live is on a blue-and-white planet, orbited by a pitted gray moon, orbiting a yellow star, which orbits a spiral galaxy inside a vast universe. On some nights, sidewalk astronomers come out with the Moon to walk in John Dobson's shoes and remind people that the place where they really live might even be as big and fascinating as New York City on a Thursday night.
Thursday evening. In New York City they call it "the new Friday," meaning the night when everyone gets an early start on the weekend. Jeffrey Jacobs sets up his 8-inch Newtonian telescope on the northwest corner of Bleecker Street and 6th Avenue in Greenwich Village. Here, the high-rises sit low, and Jacobs focuses his telescope on the Moon, now making its debut in the east. Then, he violates an unwritten New York City law and starts talking to strangers.
"Come see the Moon," he says in a raspy voice. "Come see the Moon."
People try to ignore him. A man walks past, holding his daughter's hand.
"Come take a look at the Moon," Jacobs beckons. The man pauses, suspicious, and tries to keep going. But his daughter springs on her tippy-toes like excited kids do.
"Without touching the scope, just move up and slowly look with one eye," Jacobs says. "What do you see?"
"It looks like it could fall," she says. "I have a book about the sky."
"That's great," Jacobs says. He's age 61, genteel and dignified with his wire-rimmed glasses and dark jacket.
"She got a book about the stars and the sky for her birthday," Dad explains.
"I just turned five," she says.
"Tell him thank you," Dad says.
"Thank you," she says.
"You're very welcome," Jacobs replies, and hands her a leaflet about the sky he brought with him.
"Come see the Moon," he says, adjusting the scope. A few people look at him but keep walking. "Come see the Moon." A man in a gray coat stops.
"What's your purpose?" Gray Coat asks.
"It's a public service," Jacobs explains. "Sidewalk astronomy. We're looking at the Moon tonight," he says. Gray Coat steps up to the eyepiece and looks intently. "This is the best I've ever seen it. Why do we only see one side?"
"The gravitational pull of the Earth over billions of years has stopped the Moon from spinning," Jacobs explains. "It's dancing with us, and we're telling it we want to look at its face all the time."
He re-centers the telescope. "Look at the crater near the top." Gray Coat concentrates on the eyepiece. "It's named Tycho, after the Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe," Jacobs says. "The wall measures thousands of feet high." Gray Coat stares. "See the rays emanating from the crater? They're formed from glass beads. Some of the rays measure 1,000 miles long. That's the distance from New York to Chicago."
A red-haired man wearing a red jacket jabbers obliviously into his cell phone. He stops in front of the telescope, waiting for the light to turn green. "Come look at the Moon," Jacobs tells him. Red Jacket turns around, a little stunned. "Okay," he says, dialing another number.
He closes the phone and steps up to the eyepiece. "Wow," he says. "Wow ... wow. Why are you doing this?"
"Just as a public service," Jacobs says.
"Thank you very much. It's funny, during the blackout we slept on the roof and I said, 'When was the last time you saw a sky full of stars in Manhattan?'" He opens up the phone to make another call. "I saw the Moon. Through a telescope. What? Seriously."
"Hey, didn't I see you two years ago in the East Village, on Houston?" a thin, dark-haired man asks. "You were showing Jupiter then."
"Yes, that was me." They shake hands. "Tonight it's the Moon. Take a look."
He does. A woman with red hair and a knee-length coat walks up.
"Can I look? Cool." She puts her eye on the lens. "Whoa! How cool!"
"Yes it is, and it's yours," Jacobs says.
"Oh. Wow. Wow! It looks so close."
"It's about 240,000 miles away."
"Can you see more the higher you are? I used to live in Santa Fe and I'd see maybe 15 shooting stars a night," she says.
"Were they in August or November?"
"I guess November."
"They're called the Leonids." He explains the Leonid meteor shower and hands her the leaflet.
"One more question. Is the Moon in waning gibbous or waxing gibbous phase?"
"Good question! It's waxing."
"Thank you!" She walks away backward, then whirls. "Goodbye!"
Another woman strides by with a yellow Labrador retriever on a leash. The lab wears a pumpkin-colored bandana tied around its neck that vaguely matches the woman's baseball cap and jacket. The dog sniffs around the scope's mount.
"What is that?"
"A telescope. We're looking at the Moon." She peers down the tube. "Lean over here, look into the eyepiece."
"Wow!"
"That's the right noise."
"Wow! What's so different about it tonight?"
"Just that I'm here with a high-powered telescope."
"Only in New York could you come outside and see a telescope and an astronomer on the corner of the street," she says, the dog pulling her away to sniff at trees. "Thanks for doing that. That's very great."
"What are you looking at?" a young man in a dark ski cap asks.
"We're looking at the Moon."
"Does it cost anything?" Jacobs shakes his head and re-centers the telescope.
"Nothing in this city is free."
"This is."
"Cool." He looks. "Amazing! Quick question. I'm looking for Greenwich Avenue and Perry."
"Go straight up here. Turn left at the old women's prison."
"There's a women's prison here?"
"Was. It's a park now."
"What prompted you to do this?"
Jacobs tells him about John Dobson. A one-time monk, Dobson, 92, built his first telescope in 1956 out of a junk-store lens and an eyepiece salvaged from Zeiss binoculars. Then he turned it on the third-quarter Moon and thought, "Everybody's got to see this." So Dobson carted his telescope to the sidewalk, and handed out plans for building cheap scopes using trashed cardboard tubes, hand-ground mirrors, and the simple "alt-azimuth" mount that's now named after him.
"He challenged other astronomers to take their scopes out of their backyards and onto the street corner, and be a public service," Jacobs says. "To talk about the universe and remind people where we live. Because what we see every day is nothing like where we really live."
Where we really live is not this small intersection in the Village. Where we really live is on a blue-and-white planet, orbited by a pitted gray moon, orbiting a yellow star, which orbits a spiral galaxy inside a vast universe. On some nights, sidewalk astronomers come out with the Moon to walk in John Dobson's shoes and remind people that the place where they really live might even be as big and fascinating as New York City on a Thursday night.