The sky says summer is coming

kw: astronomy, constellations, seasons

The early morning sky shows us what will be in the evening sky a season later. This morning, so early in Spring, I saw the Summer Triangle, with its brightest star, Vega, right overhead.

Vega is the bright white star at top center. It is relatively close, at 25 light years, and is an A0 dwarf (type V). If it were as close as Sirius, which is 8 light years away, it would be about 50% brighter than Sirius. As it is, it is the fifth brightest star in the night sky, at visual magnitude (Mv) of 0.03. It is the prototypical zero magnitude star. Its constellation is Lyra.

Altair, in the Eagle constellation (Aquila), is an A7 dwarf, so it is dimmer than Sirius by half, and twice as far away (17 light years), so its Mv is 0.77, making it firmly in the first magnitude range. It is the twelfth brightest star. You'll find it at lower right, the only bright white star in the vicinity.

Deneb, the tail of the Swan (Cygnus), is at center left. It is no dwarf. Rather it is an A2 supergiant at a distance of 3,000 light years. This distance dims it to Mv of 1.24, making it the nineteenth brightest star. Were it as close as red Betelgeuse (430 light years), it would be 4.2 magnitudes brighter than it is, at -3. Only Venus at its brightest (plus Moon and Sun) gets brighter than that. Though it seems a second-rate star, it is intrinsically the brightest star among the brightest 300 stars.

The designations "dwarf" and "giant" are historical in nature, and refer to the luminosity of a star of a particular color. Most stars are yellowish to orange in color, and among them there is a very distinct set of brightness ranges. Those few that are bluish, with few exceptions, are all at least giants, and many are supergiants. The dividing line is stars of color A, which are considered "white" when viewed from the ground. But the atmosphere scatters most of the blue light from stars, so the "yellow" star we call the Sun is actually very white, and an A star such as Sirius (or the three Summer Triangle stars), is distinctly bluish when seen from space.

To delve more into the sizes and colors and luminosities of stars, look here for a good discussion of the Hertzsprung-Russell diagram and how stars' characteristics are shown on it.

The groundhog was right

kw: seasons, photographs

February 2 was cloudy, at least in and around Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania where the official groundhog lives. And March came in like a lamb. Last year none of the flowering bushes bloomed until mid- to late April, but this year the Forsythia and Andromeda have been blooming for a few days already. These Andromeda flowers were photographed by Kathy Tempesta.

A quick look at a ten-day forecast shows me to expect rain and possibly even snow for most of the rest of March, prior to a sunny day or two leading up to April 1, so it looks like March will indeed go out like a lion. But with the flowering bushes getting into gear, and all my crocuses blooming, plus daffodils and jonquils popping up, spring is definitely on time this year.

I don't mind the rain. This is the time of year I like the best.

Worth doing again

kw: book reviews, nonfiction, geography, new jersey, seasons, watermen

A good idea bears repeating. When, fifty-plus years ago, Edwin Way Teale drove about 150,000 miles to chronicle the American seasons in his books North with the Spring, Journey into Summer, Autumn Across America, and Wandering Through Winter, I wonder if he knew he was already repeating history. I have a much-read set of these, which I think of informally as America's Seasons. Another four-book series The Fall of the Year, Winter, The Spring of the Year and Summer was published just about a century ago, authored by Dallas Lore Sharp, a New Jersey-born naturalist who is buried on New Jersey's "west coast", in Haleyville. Now I have in my hands Bayshore Summer: Finding Eden in a Most Unlikely Place by Pete Dunne, the second in a four-volume set that is still in process (and I'll have to scare up a copy of Prairie Spring).

Pete Dunne and his wife Linda chose to live in Mauricetown, about a mile from Haleyville, and nine or ten miles by road from Thompson's Beach, a defunct community that is the closest access to Delaware Bay. Not far away, kids may "take" a crab or two like this one using baited jigs, while on the bay, more serious watermen take them by the bushel, though all complain that the catch is diminishing.

Unlike Teale's nation-spanning summer volume, Bayshore Summer is focused on a few square miles of land and bay, and on the almost unnoticed ways of life that linger there, though as the area gets "discovered", those ways of life are passing away.

One chapter is devoted to an influence that could well mightily delay "development" of the bayside: biting flies. In coastal areas of Salem, Cumberland, and western Cape May counties, you'll find the most dreaded collection of flying pests in the nation, and perhaps in the world. For seven months of the year, many residents wear a hooded, screened "fly shirt" when going to the coast, and they never wear shorts. To do so is akin to self-sacrifice.

People in many places learn to dread the deer fly. The New Jersey strawberry fly is worse, though being soft-bodied, one swat will do one in, perhaps before it inflicts a bloody bite. But the greenhead fly, a bit bigger than a horsefly and armored like a knight, will simply drive you inland if you fail to armor yourself. The author writes that if you are lucky, a swat followed by a rolling drag will knock one to the ground where you can stomp it, twisting your foot to be sure you actually crush it. Maybe. Well-designed clothing and a stiff breeze are your only defenses.

But there are delights here for the residents, who love the place dearly. A chapter on recreational fishing, whether singly or in a "party boat", explains that fishing draws a person into a different world, where different values and rhythms take hold. I recall talking with an elderly woman about fishing once, and I remarked on my frustration with spending a day to drag up a couple of barely-legal crappie (this was in South Dakota), when I could have bought better fish at the market, for less than the price of my bucket of bait. "Don't tell me you fish for economic reasons!" she scolded. I know many, many folks fish for the love of it, whether they catch much or not. At the time of the scolding, I'd already fished for the last time in my life.

The rhythms of life are different enough in these South Jersey places—akin in my mind to southern Delaware and rural Pennsylvania, and to other rural places I've lived—that one doesn't have to go fishing for a refreshing change of routine. In my case, most of the places I've chosen to live, I simply have to go home from work.

For many South Jersey residents, the place is their work. The watermen who fish for crabs, whether blue or horseshoe (I know they are in different taxonomic families), or for weakfish or eels, work harder for a living than anyone except perhaps coal miners. And, as many will tell you, they "get to work on the water." Many work a "day job" so they can afford to spend the half day between pre-sunrise and the start of the "9-5 workday" catching fish or crabs for market. These are not the "commercial fishermen" derided by the shallower thinkers among environmentalists. They are doing what they love.

The last chapter of the book describes the complex web of forces that underlie just one fishery, the weakfish of the Bay. The author spent a day on the water with "Captain George" Kumor, catching blue crabs and baitfish. He did some portion of the work, which probably slowed the Captain down a bit, but was received with good humor. But there are many forces at work behind the continually dropping population of weakfish, in spite of environmental remediation efforts. Just one example: The land that was flooded to "restore" buffering marshland had been growing salt grass for a generation or two, and as this grass rotted on the bottom, oxygen levels dropped. This forced the young fish into deeper water, where more were lost to predators. Although the weakfish population is dropping everywhere, it has been dropping fastest where "they" are doing the most to restore it!

A chapter on light pollution hit a chord with me. (It's already official; before the year 2000 began, there was no place left on Earth that did not have measurable light pollution. On a map of the night side of Earth as seen from satellites, a few stand out as the darkest: mountaintops such as the Himalayas and the Andes and the top of Mauna Kea—partly due to lighting regulations in nearby Hawaiian cities—, plus one more: the center of North Korea, where the feudal conditions don't allow such amenities as night lighting. Isn't it a pity that North Korean kids may be the only ones to really see the night sky!) The author recounts the gradual loss of the night sky, first in his boyhood home in northern New Jersey, and over the past twenty or so years in Cumberland County. How rare it is to see the Milky Way any more! (I see it no more than once or twice a year)

This well-focused book limns summer for us in just this one small portion of the planet. Summer is well-loved by many, everywhere, and there is room for a shelf-full of books on the seasons, as they are experienced everywhere. "Join the club, Pete, and much welcome to you!"

Springing early

kw: observations, seasons

Perhaps the groundhog was right, and Spring will arrive in less than six weeks (from Feb 2). The yellow crocuses are already in bloom, and of the two kinds of mayapple, the smaller variety is just beginning to bloom. I also heard spring peepers (frogs) singing at a pond in Boothwyn, PA last night. It was remarkable, as the temperature was about 35°F (2°C). All this more than two weeks earlier than last year.

I seem to remember that prior to a few years ago, the Forsythia would bloom in late February. I don't see that any more.

Seeing the season shift

kw: poems, seasons

Orion in the morning sky,
Cassiopeia riding high,
Pleiades right overhead:
Autumn weather's just ahead.

Signs of Spring 6 - pollen

kw: observations, seasons

This morning my car, normally white, looked greenish, even chartreuse. Once I started it, I ran the windshield wipers. The oak and tulip trees at the end of my driveway strike again!

Jostle the right kind of tree, and you'll see a cloud of pollen. When we lived in South Dakota, downwind of the Black Hills, this time of year we could see yellow rivers of pollen in the air, and the black (really dark gray) asphalt streets turned a distinct yellow color, along with everything else.

People who are sensitive to pine pollen just shouldn't be near piney woods in April or May. Trees that depend on the wind (and other wind-pollinated plants such as corn / maize) produce huge amounts of pollen, as much as a kilogram for a large pine tree, or a gram or two from each cornstalk.

This is why so many plants "prefer" to be pollinated by insects. They put less total energy and substance into making flowers to attract pollinators than is used by wind-pollinated plants for their pollen burden.

The greenish color of this morning's pollen tells me it came mostly from the oak tree. Oak pollen is green, as this image shows. Tulip tree pollen is more distinctly yellow, and not quite as abundant. Thus I got a chartreuse mix. This image is from the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation.

Oak pollen follows one strategy that favors wind dispersal: the grains are very small. This image and the one below are at very similar magnifications.

Pine pollen follows another strategy: wings. Each grain has two "air bladders", hollow projections that decrease the average density and make it easier for wind to carry aloft. I found this image at the University of Hamburg Biology Department. The pollen grains have been stained with crystal violet.

This is the last of this year's Signs of Spring series. Yesterday the temperature got up to just below 90°F (32°C), throughout the Philadelphia area. That is the ultimate sign of Spring!

Signs of Spring 5 - Flowering bushes and trees

kw: observations, seasons, photographs

Monday it rained, Tuesday I was out of it, and today I saw what I'd missed:

The Forsythia bushes have burst into bloom. Where over the weekend, I saw none in bloom, I was hard pressed to find any that weren't at least half filled with flowers.

While the flowering cherries are mostly still in bud, a few have also burst out, wherever one is in a warmer or sunnier spot.

I have two clumps of Andromeda. One is barely beginning to show white flower buds, while this one, in my sunniest spot, is fully in bloom.

I'm still waiting for the apple tree. The buds are getting big, but are mostly leaf buds. Some years it blooms first, but like last year, it shows signs this year of planning to go into leaf first.

Signs of Spring 4 - geese so high

kw: observations, seasons, photographs

This image, which has been enhanced to a fair-thee-well, shows a skein of geese on their way to Canada as they flew over about noontime. This skein is clearly not local geese. They were flying well above the aircraft on approach to Philadelphia Airport, some thirty miles away.

My wife spotted them. We were out doing yard work, and I could hear them. I love hearing geese fly over (I like it less well when they spend any time on the lawn, filling it with their droppings).

This photo was with my smaller camera, zoomed out all the way at 3x. Then I cropped out just the geese, another about 3x effective zoom. They were way, way up there.

It was a lovely day for yard work, so we spent most of it outdoors. I pruned some big upright branches out of the apple tree, which didn't take long. What took the next two hours was cutting and bundling the debris. We also weeded and did some other trimming and general cleanup. When the mailman went by in the late afternoon, I was up the tree again, putting concrete into a hollow spot on a branch. I remarked to him that I seem to pick the nicest days for doing overly strenuous work. He just laughed. Happy Spring, everyone!

Signs of Spring 3 - first flowers

kw: observations, photographs, seasons

A few days ago the Aconite was the first Spring flower to bloom. Ten or more years ago, the Forsythia would bloom first, whenever Spring came of a sudden in early March. Not lately.

Aconite is a pretty weed. I have seen these for sale at nurseries, but they are native to the area and easy to obtain, best from seed in the summer; just pull off a few seed heads.

Funny though; some people consider them a noxious weed and root them out. They have not proved invasive in our garden. We have just two patches of them that stay about the same year after year.


The Crocuses seldom arrive earlier than the Aconite or Forsythia. This year, they are between them, as the Forsythia have yet to bloom. Forsythia has become an April flower since about 1998.

Many of our Crocuses have been eaten by the resident rabbit. She is bigger than ever this year. I think I read that Saffron is made from Crocus pollen. Maybe it is actually from a related plant. Anyway, Crocus flower buds are very edible and only the fact that we have a lot of them has left a few uneaten.

In the past, Tulips would come up by now. This year in particular, the heavy snow cover until last week has cooled the ground and led to a delayed Spring.

Finally, this is today's first Daffodil. I wish I'd caught it in full sun, earlier in the day, but one must work, don'cha know. Our daffodils spread more than the Aconite does. We've had to thin them out a couple times in the fifteen years we've been here.

The flower I am most eagerly awaiting is the blossoms on the Apple tree. Then I'll know Spring is fully under weigh.

Signs of Spring 2 - early bugs

kw: observations, seasons, photographs

As Winter gives way to Spring, overwintering insects that have been hiding under chips of bark or in leaf litter begin to get out and look for mates. These scant resources feed some of the "early birds" that also come out of hiding.

This little moth, just 8mm long, was sitting on my storm door when I left the house yesterday morning. Were it on a tree branch, it would look like a bird dropping and go unnoticed.

The beetle in the other photo, which looks a lot like a firefly, is about 14mm long. I didn't turn it over to see if it is a firefly. It showed up when I returned home in the afternoon.

I've seen a few other insects about, including a couple of flies. I have no interest in photographing flies.

Click on either picture to see the full-size clips, one 600 pixels wide, the other 750. They illustrate the macro capabilities of the Canon SD1200. I had the camera set to 6Mpx, which produces, to my eye, cleaner images than the default mode of 10Mpx.

Colors of Fall, large and small

kw: photographs, autumn, seasons

About half the leaves have changed in my neighborhood. These trees that border a schoolyard are about as nice a view as I've seen this year. This is a stitch of four photos. Click on it to see a 1600-pixel-wide version.

A stump near the schoolyard has become covered with small shelf fungi (what the Japanese call "tree ears") over the past several years. The view on the right (or below, depending how your browser composites these images) is what we typically see, looking from above. For the one on the left (maybe above), I held the camera below the same spot. These are low to the ground, so recent rains have splashed a lot of dirt particles onto the lower surfaces.


The bush honeysuckle berries are about as nice as they are likely to get. These bushes abound along a path through the woods that we take to get to the schoolyard.

Later in the season, migrating birds will eat the berries, but I'm told they are not edible by people. I didn't try. I remember the Pyracantha berries that used to line the street where I lived in my grade school years. The orange berries were dry and tasteless, and could give you an upset stomach, but at certain times of year the birds devoured them. Thinking about it, I recall a number of berries, including some nearly black purple ones, that birds eat but people don't.

Of course, there are plenty of autumn fruits that people do eat. When we lived in South Dakota, we would gather chokecherries and serviceberries to make jam. One of my professors and I used to simply eat the chokecherries. At first, they are astringent, but you get used to it, then they are very tasty. But when you've had enough, your mouth puckers up nice and tight!

These little crab apples, on a new tree in my yard, are edible, just. They are pretty sour. I decided to leave them on the tree; they will cling until Spring, when migrating birds will strip them off the tree some fine afternoon. When the tree gets bigger I'll start harvesting some of them to make jelly.

On second thought, maybe I'll make them into a jam instead; just strain out the seeds. One of the hardest things about making any apple jelly is getting the juice out of the pulp. Other fruits can be strained through muslin and need just a little squeezing to yield the juice. Apples seem to have invented the super-absorbent gel and one loses most of the juice without using a mechanical press. I gave up on that years ago; now if I want to make apple jelly I buy a bottle of cider and start with that.

Here's one more tree I saw after taking the panorama. It illustrates the tendency of many maples to get redder where they've been colder, or where they were "nipped" first. The color gradation of this tree is very nice.

All this on a walk to the schoolyard to pick up black walnuts!

Just what I needed

kw: observations, seasons

Daffodils are rather foolish. Mine have been several inches out of the ground for nearly a month, and I suspect some of them got nipped in this week's cold snap. Wiser crocuses have yet to show even the tip of a flower bud. When winter is milder, sometimes the Forsythia blooms before March 1, but its buds are not showing any signs of cracking open either, but they are getting swollen and ready.

The birds are also gearing up for Spring, being attuned to the length of the day, and less troubled by a brief chill. This morning at sunrise when I went out to get the paper, I heard plenty of birdsong. I don't know many birds' songs, but I did recognize the chickadee. I could hear five or more other songs but didn't see the singers. I did see sparrows and robins. Of course there are flocks of starlings shuttling here and there, but they squawk more than sing.

There was no wind, even no breeze, just a calm chill. Standing still, listening to the birds heartened me.