That Blue October Sky

Try explaining how blue the October sky is, how it grips even the loneliest spots on Earth and in the mind until they glow and seem meaningful when the rest of the year we don't look twice. 

 

Driving home I saw this sight and could have kept driving but scolded myself, "Time was when you'd turn around, stop, park and stand in the road to take a picture to share with everyone so they could see what you see, feel the reverence, how great it is to live here and now. Is that time gone? Are you old or just lazy? Maybe taking it for granted? What about beauty? What about awe?"

 

So I found a place to park and backtracked up the road, walking past a field of dead sunflowers on long thick stems much taller than I, with weird little gray birds shooting in and out of them. I stopped and saw they were goldfinches, not lemon-yellow anymore but wearing their duller winter corduroy. High winds roiled the grasses and treetops and filled my ears. If a car were approaching I would have to feel it through my feet. But there was no other car and I got my photo. Happy October.

The Homeless Telescope

We'd not seen each other in 10 years, but a Facebook friend, a city resident, knew I liked stars and one day messaged and asked if I wanted a telescope. I have always wanted a telescope. We met and placed the entire assembly in my car's trunk because neither of us knew how to separate the telescope from the tripod -- and if we did we might not know enough to reassemble it.

It's a 114mm Polaris by Meade reflector telescope, and somebody bought it and never used it and gave it to my Facebook friend who kept it in his garage hoping to use it but never did. It looked quite too noble to be homeless.

Before even daring to clean the dust from it I'm trying to learn whether it's salvageable. First, telescopes shouldn't be left outside, especially not in garages that can get very hot. Only my porch or my heart have any room. I figured if it's been garaged for a couple of years staying on the porch awhile wouldn't do much further harm. The buyers' reviews said it's a beginner's telescope but good quality for the price, about $150 new. The knob sticking out on the right is a counterweight.

Looking down into the eyescope I discovered it lacks an eyepiece. New telescopes come with a set of 3 eyepieces, but this model of Polaris had cheap ones I can replace with better-quality eyepieces for about $20. The eyepieces are everything. The telescope's focus is permanently set to "infinity." That I liked. There is at least one scientific-looking ring marked in increments, in white paint, 0-360.

I also learned you can buy new telescopes controllable with your phone. Using an app, enter the desired astral object and the telescope will find it automatically. But one cannot use those 'scopes manually. Without Wi-Fi there'd be no stargazing.

Ahead: more learning, and maybe some joy. If I can restore and master this one, I can master a finer one.

Toad-Stranglers

June thunderstorms with clouds like slate rolling pins and booming noise shook up our area three times this past week. First time, electricity was off for six hours. Second time, a heavy tree branch fell and broke my rain gauge. We were lucky that the eye of each storm just missed us and did nothing but dump needed rain for a while, I'm guessing about an inch each time, not enough to flood. The third storm was last evening. Gully-washer. Toad-strangler. Perfectly seasonable. After poking at us just to let us know who is boss, the storm turned deeply serious as it chugged eastward. Photo was taken facing east, and you can see the dark clouds at the bottom while our area was filling with eerie yellow-orange light.

The Afterglow

Toward sunset on a simmering-hot day, a day or two ago, a storm came. According to radar it was a big 'un. Violent. So I put on shoes, rounded up my purse and crucial belongings such as earrings, phone and charger, and hid in the the only room without windows, the bathroom. (Cabin is built on a concrete slab, no basement.) Yet the storm just skirted here and didn't even knock the power out. So I crept out and saw, in the east where the storm was heading, the strangest orange sky. Glowing orange with a touch of gray. Tried photographing it, to capture the color. And in the photograph I saw a ring thing (lens glare, I thought). I looked up higher in the actual sky and saw layered onto this eerie orange background, a rainbow. From hearing reports, I learned it was seen all over the area.

Comet Lovejoy

skyandtelescope.com

 

A friend said "Follow Orion's belt up to the Pleiades" and to their right -- with binoculars or a telescope, because this rare visible-to-the-naked-eye comet is at its brightest right now, today, at magnitude 3.8. That's not very bright; the North Star is much brighter at magnitude 1.97. About 11:15 p.m. last night in the marvelous 99 percent darkness we have here (except for the headlights on passing cars) I searched with my 8x binoculars. Didn't find the comet.

Back in the house I consulted the Google Sky map. It's not on there! Googled it, learning its name -- Comet Lovejoy, how wonderful! -- at skyandtelescope.com, and their map showed the comet's location and trajectory for every day of January--currently to the right of the Pleiades, just as I was told. The page had wonderful astronomers' photos of the comet, which is bright green. Out again but did not find it. Kept looking to the right of the Pleiades. Now I'd been looking for an hour. I knew it was out there. Back indoors, looking at the same map.

The temperature, above freezing, was tolerable, so I went out again because I hate to give up on anything. Carefully, carefully I  swept the sky with its shovelsful of stars. This time I recalled that the sky is a curved shell and "to the right"--as the stars progress westward--will also mean "downward." At last, at last: I found it. A smeary little wad of light, no tail, not visibly green, but rather the color of Vaseline. Beautiful, to me!

Using Apps for Better Sleep and Waking

Two free Android apps for healthy sleep are "Twilight" and "Light Alarm Clock" and I'm loving both so far. "Twilight" reduces the brighter-than-daylight display from your screen (any screen) in the evenings, in harmony with actual nightfall, so you're more likely to fall asleep naturally when you should. I was staying up with business, games, and Facebook on my phone until 1:00 and 1:30 a.m. "Twilight" allows me to go to sleep at least an hour earlier.

Waking in winter--at any hour--is a chore. The sun rises late, and window insulation further darkens my house, disrupting circadian rhythm so I was a zombie in the mornings and and ready to work starting at about 6:00 p.m. -- unsustainable, even with coffee. "Light Alarm Clock" gradually emits mock daylight for up to 30 minutes before waking me with my selection of gentle music and the sound of twittering birds. I set it for 6:45 a.m., actually got up at that time instead of my usual day-wasting 8:30, and witnessed a red dawn: very pretty, but an old sign for rough weather ahead. Here's that dawn, and late morning, the same view the same day.

And the Day Came. . .

.  . .when the sun rose like the moon. And only female hummingbirds were left. And the kitchen floor was suddenly too cold for bare feet and I shut off the ceiling fans. Woke from a scary dream -- extremely rare, but almost 365 days to the day from last year's bad dream. And I sought out and wore a sweatshirt in the morning for the first time in months. There were pie pumpkins at the vegetable stand and I wanted one, but, in denial, I bought an eggplant and apples instead. (It was a fine fat piglet of an eggplant.) Leaves are still green, but basil must be harvested or be lost. The weatherman predicted a high in the 60s by Friday. I try to remember that this day comes only to the lucky who still have days.

. . .clients contacted me, three on the same day, after several months. They are buckling down, writing again. I roasted pears and pinched the skins from concord grapes and ran them through the food mill to remove seeds, and froze the pulp for grape pie. Cookbooks lay open to lentil dal and and vegan cheese soup, and I contemplate buying King Arthur scone mix. I chose for lunch a slice of blackberry pie, now out of season, and a scoop of vanilla ice cream. It cost almost $11 but I have craved it for weeks, since blackberries vanished. I brought out the little artificial sun lamp that sustains me as I reduce my house to two rooms and then to the one with the fewest windows.

It is time to file, caulk, fill, cover, clean, oil, sharpen; assess supplies of salt, cat litter (for icy surfaces), birdseed, canned foods, and water in jugs. Pick up woolen suits from the tailor. Change the sheets from cotton to flannel. Arrange visits with friends who in two months will be hard to get to. Pay the house and car insurance. Propane tank is already filled.

The year is tilting.

A Sunrise Like a Moonrise

Last night had a nightmare, very rare for me. This morning woke up in light of a glassy moonstone grey as I hadn't seen in a while, and suddenly my chemistry changed. From the kitchen, which faces east, I saw the sun struggling upward though shrouds of purple and gunmetal gray, looking more like a moonrise, and for a moment I was disoriented: day or night? No; it's summer becoming fall, heading toward the one equinox I could do without. No one hangs onto the final days of summer as I do, begging them, please do not take my basil and hummingbirds and "honor" vegetable stands. But the morning didn't listen and whisked me along as the earth shifts on its axis, tilts away from the sun, giving me no choice except acceptance. It does, however, provide coffee to lift one's spirits.

Harvest Moon

Came home from a skirt-and-high-heels event dragging a huge bag of apples a friend harvested from his trees and gave me. Saw the rising full moon, said, "That's cool!" and grabbed camera and tripod and ran outside and worked until I got what I saw. The moon that's closest to the Fall Equinox is called the "Harvest Moon". This one's in the sign of Aries. Because it's the second full moon of the month for most of us, some people say it's a "blue moon." According to Wikipedia they aren't technically right, but let's pretend they are.