In July, 1991 the Daytona Beach chapter of the Central Florida
Astronomical Society began meeting monthly in the planetarium of the
D.B. Museum of Arts and Sciences. Taking advantage of the excellent
star projector and the cooperation of the facility's director, Roger
Hoefer, we made constellation study a part of most meetings for two
years. In the opening presentation I mentioned several reasons why
amateur astronomers should learn to recognize at least the conspicuous
constellations: they define areas of the celestial sphere as the
continents and large islands define areas of Earth's surface, and thus
provide quick references for the positions of telescopic objects (e.g.
galaxies) and moving or transient naked-eye ones (planets, comets);
they provide training in star-pattern recognition that is necessary to
identify special stars or starlike objects (asteroids, quasars) in
telescopic fields from detailed charts; and over half of the 88 star
figures visualized in modern, Western astronomy represent cultural
developments such as hunting and agriculture by our ancient or
prehistoric ancestors.
This first presentation, in September, dealt mostly with Pegasus, the
upside-down Flying Horse in the ancient Greek myth of the heroic deeds
of Perseus, then climbing up the eastern evening sky. Even though the
figure we saw was artificial, it brought back fond memories to me. For
Pegasus had been the first constellation I had learned, by myself, in a
real sky long ago and far away. Following is a little background.
I grew up in Kalamazoo, Michigan
between the beginning of World War II and the dawning of
spaceflight--the launching of the Sputniks by the U.S.S.R. After the
war, the city grew to become All-American for its size. It had a
four-season climate and the environment for all sorts of natural
recreational activities or hobbies. The economy was diverse and the
cost of living was pegged to what working-class families could afford.
Serious crime was very rare. Culture was "in," including two four-year
colleges, very good grade schools, and first-rate music and dramatics
organizations. My father Virgil worked as a war-plant machinist in lieu
of military service, then returned to his main trade as a layer of
floor coverings when the war ended and was able to buy a house in a
nice neighborhood about three miles south of Kalamazoo's business
center. Trees and rather closely-spaced houses made the yard imperfect
for stargazing, but abundant clear skies and unnoticable artificial
light pollution compensated: the summer Milky Way was spectacular and
the dimmer winter section was easily visible.
My interest in astronomy developed in the late 1940's by a circuitous
route described in the next article of this series. Suffice it here
that by the summer of 1951 I was "hooked.
Learning
Some Constellations the Hard Way
Late one warm, splendidly clear evening in August 1951 I sat on the
back steps of our house in Kalamazoo, trying to identify the
constellation Pegasus from the main star chart in an issue of Sky and
Telescope acquired a few weeks earlier at the Hayden Planetarium in New
York City. I was puzzled that the square-shaped figure in view didn't
match the chart's representation very well. It had three instead of
four nearly equally bright stars and no bright "nose" star to the west
at the right distance. High above was a very bright star that could
have been Altair, except that west of it was an even brighter one.
Frustrated to the point of quitting and going to bed, I took a last
look at the chart and suddenly realized I had been facing northeast,
not east! The back of the house faced north so I should have known
better than to expect to see the eastern sky well from my perch. And as
a Boy Scout I knew the significance of the geographic directions. Shame
on me for a faulty sense of direction due to sheer carelessness!
Sure enough, the chart showed a constellation well up in the northeast
then which included a square figure. But it wasn't Pegasus. I had been
viewing Cassiopeia, a much smaller constellation, for a hour. In just
five more minutes, from the backyard, I found the Great Square and the
rest of the upside-down Flying Horse. So, I also had lacked a sense of
angular distances in the sky and needed to acquire it. But here I was
in distinguished company. Many years later I was fascinated by Leslie
Peltier's confession, in his book Starlight Nights , of his repeated
failure in early 1918 to identify R Leonis in his small refracting
telescope because he didn't know the real angular field size of the
eyepiece and hence couldn't make sense of his special chart of the
variable star's field.
This ego-jarring experience was an effective teacher. In a couple more,
brief stargazing sessions I identified several more constellations and
their brightest stars, using Pegasus and Cassiopeia as references and
my now miraculously good senses of angular distance and direction in
the sky. Westward were the prominent figures Aquila, Capricornus,
Cygnus and Lyra; Altair, Deneb and Vega were mine for a lifetime!
Sagittarius and Scorpius, very low due to my latitude of 42 degrees
North, were let go till the next summer. Eastward were constellations
that would join the Flying Horse and Seated Queen in dominating the
skies of fast-approaching autumn: Andromeda, Perseus, Auriga and
Taurus. Capella became the first among the very bright stars that I
recognized from a deliberate search, without screwing up, and
thereafter my best friend in its class. Many years later, in Florida,
it would repay me for knowing it so long and so well, by signaling with
its early evening rising the end of each hot, humid summer and the
beginning of pleasant conditions and much clearer skies.
There were many more constellations yet to learn, including some
spectacular ones. In September, 1951 I was distracted from this
activity by the acquisition and use of a cheap and nearly worthless
telescope. Then, in early October, a look out a south-facing window in
our house an hour or so before dawn got me back on track. Glaring back
at me was the Mighty Hunter! But this event deserves a separate article.
I hope that readers recognize some useful tips in my first, wayward
encounter with Pegasus about learning constellations. Appropriate
charts are a must, and help from knowledgable people in a planetarium
or under a real sky is OK, but in the end do it yourself, prepared to make mistakes
and even to temporarily fail. Start with a sense of at least
approximate geographic directions and of angular distances, but expect
surprises in translating the latter to the starry sky. When you do
succeed at an identification, it will become a personal treasure, boost
your confidence, and increase your ability to learn other
constellations and bright stars.
