April 2, 1997 -- a Letter to Mom after viewing Comet Hale-Bopp
Dear Mum,
After some fifty years of waiting, I saw a comet tonight.
When I was about six years old, at home in Indiana, I first came to know
about Halley's Comet (1910 version), and in 1948 or so I reflected that
in about forty years, I too would get to see the great comet. Then came
1986 and the comet that wasn't. I had expected a comet as bright as the
moon, one that you could see in broad daylight. Then Halley's Comet arrived
and the newspapers told us to go out to somewhere really dark, take a good
pair of binoculars, and look carefully in a particular direction -- what
a fraud!
There have been a couple of other comets since then that weren't much better.
You still had to work hard to see them. Then along came Comet Hale-Bopp,
and I was drawn in again -- on the evening that was billed to give us the
best view, Linda and I went out on the boat and anchored in a harbor on
the north end of Bainbridge Island, a few miles from Seattle.
Then I saw the comet -- not as big as I had hoped, but a comet nevertheless
on the northern horizon. I pointed it out to Linda, and she pointed out
to me that it was an airplane. I was fooled by several more planes before
giving up.
The next night there was to be a lunar eclipse, which was supposed to give
us a better chance to see the comet. But I was beginning to smell another
fraud. True, there were glorious photos in the paper with Hale-Bopp behind
the Golden Gate Bridge (in one case) and behind a cactus in the Mojave Desert
(in another). But I suspected a trick -- a comet artificially enlarged relative
to foreground object thanks to a telephoto lens.
On the night of the eclipse, Linda and I went to the theater. When we came
out, the moon was about half way into the eclipse. We were with two other
couples, and the six of us stood on the pathway and watched the earth shadow
move over the moon. Scores of people hurried past us. A few stopped for
a quick look. "The comet?" was their typical question. When we
would say "lunar eclipse," they would hurry on. I felt a like
the Little Prince trying to find someone who would realize that the picture
of the hat was really the picture of a boa constrictor who had swallowed
an elephant.
I wanted people to see this thing. Sure the wasn't a comet -- but comets
are frauds anyway, and this lunar eclipse was real. As groups of
people approached, I took to saying, "Look!" (ostensibly to our
friends, in reality for the passers by) and pointing to the moon as if I
had just seen it. The passersby would hear me, look up, learn that the moon
was being eclipsed, and hurry on.
Didn't these people care that something unusual was afoot in the heavens?!
Back at home, Linda and I walked down to Lake Washington and had another
look for the comet. I was surprised that the moon was still in the shadow
about thirty minutes now since we had first seen it.
But still no comet.
A few days later we saw a pale light through the light clouds and city lights
that may have been the comet, but it was a pathetic imitation of the true
comet of my boyhood dreams. Then tonight I had another look.
This "letter" which I will read to you later, comes from Cheney,
where I spent the week teaching at Eastern Washington University.
I went outside tonight to see whether the clear skys and low light of this
town might make the comet more visible. And then, by gosh, from the center
of the campus I saw a bright light in sky where the comet ought to be. It
was no bigger than a good-sized star or one of the planets when nearby --
but I was pleased to see it at all. I walked up a hill away from the bright
lights of the campus for a better view, up into the wheatfields that lie
beyond the university's football field, following yonder star (or rather
comet) as I walked. Soon the constellation were winking brightly overhead.
BUT I realized that my comet was not a comet at all bur rather a star or
planet.
I knew this because, suddenly, in a new direction, about 60 degrees to the
north from where I had been looking, I saw a much brighter light. There
was no doubt that this was indeed the comet. The center point was about
the size of a big star, no larger. But this particular star carried a veil
of diaphenous light, a long narrow triangle, longer than the full moon is
broad.
Walking into the field, I let my feet find their way across the dark furroughs.
I found a spot sheltered from the lights of Cheney, and then I simply looked
and looked at that marvelous sight. True, even this was a small appearance
compared to the great comets of the past. But a decade of disappointments
had humbled my expectations. And it was lovely.
It was cold in the field, but I did not mind standing there for a long time.
Sometimes I would turn to other stars, then back to the comet, enjoying
the sensation of surprise every time I saw it.
Similarly, my mind would try to realize the comet, then tack away, then
return to it. I reflected that this comet is near us now in the midst of
a 4200 year journey. Isn't that a wonderful time-scale! Halley's 86 years
is only a human lifetime -- not that long in cosmic terms. Other comets
come by only every 70,000 years or so, which is just too much time for a
historian like me to take in. But 4200 years -- that's a good number. It
is marvellously large, and yet still accessible.
We know a bit about those great great great grandparents who saw this very
comet back then. The last time the comet was here they were on the brink
of forming the first great civilizations. On the comet's previous visit
8400 years ago, it would have looked down on more ancestors who were just
begining to cultivate corn and other crops.
There is something about the comet and its trail of light that still captivates
me at I sit in front of my computer screen and write this letter. Following
the track of that fascination to its source is a bit like trying to swim
through the haze of comet light to the comet itself. But why not try.
First, the comet is sublime in its imperturbability. While we endure wars
and disease and floods, it hussles its mineral self through millions of
miles of space toward a rendezvous every four millenia or so with our own
mineral home in space. That's one thing that impresses me. The comet is
so different than our highly perturbable selves.
And yet at the same time, I'm drawn to this comparison. You and I and our
fellow earthlings are like this comet in that we follow our own orbits,
propelling our mineral selves through our several-decades-long encounter
with the planet earth.
Where we go afterwards, and where we were before -- who knows.
Do you know?
Love,
Bill