MEDITATION ON THE NIGHT SKY AND A DOG

On a recent summer night I sat on my deck and gazed at the sky. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just wondering, “What’s up there? Who’s out there?” Given the light pollution in St. Louis County, very few stars were visible. Still, I knew millions of celestial bodies were up there. From hot and bright to cold and dark.

Earlier that week another rocket had climbed from its launch pad in Florida, headed towards the International Space Station. Here we are, in 2019, when "space station" and "moon landing" and rockets built by billionaires have become concepts so commonplace, we forget what incredible feats we’re witnessing.

When I was ten or eleven years old, I immersed myself in science-fiction stories by the great writers. Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke, A.E. Van Vogt (I still don’t know what A.E. stands for), Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein. The magical list goes on, stories that took me to the furthest reaches of the universe, of time, of imagination. I also had a complete collection of “Weird Science” and “Weird Fantasy” EC comic books, which my mother pitched when my parents moved while I was in the Army. “I thought you were through with those,” she told me. I never fully forgave her. I still sink into the grip of nostalgia when I see a piece of art by Wallace Wood or Jack Davis or Al Feldstein.

Space travel? Only in those stories. We were still an earthbound race. 

In 1950 I traveled to Mars with Ray Bradbury when I read “The Martian Chronicles.” I explored the Red Planet with his characters, convincingly transported to some possible future. 

Here’s an example of Bradbury’s magic from that book:

     "The rocket lay on the launching field, blowing out pink clouds of fire

     and oven heat. The rocket stood in the cold winter morning, making

     summer with every breath of its might exhausts. The rocket made

     climates, and summer lay for a brief moment upon the land..."

Bradbury turned science and technology into poetry.

Today we watch a rocket take off on TV or iPhone or laptop, and, I would guess, we are not captivated by the majesty and sense of wonder it deserves. We’ve become used to amazing accomplishments of science. Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos, familiar names now, have their own dreams and plans for space travel. They follow closely on the heels of the pioneers who took us “up there,” the scientists and astronauts of NASA. Several other countries have claimed their place in space as the human race hungers for knowledge of the beyond, as well as military and economic leverage. No, this is not fiction.

Which brings me to a dog named Laika. She was a husky-spitz mix, a stray found on the streets of Moscow. The Soviets were building Sputnik 2 and wanted to send an animal into space. Laika got the call. Sad to say, she didn’t survive the journey. The scientists didn’t expect her to. She remained in her capsule for five months, not alive, until it plunged into the Caribbean, a dog’s coffin turned shooting star. Laika became a sort of canine Soviet hero, the first animal in space, memorialized on stamps, posters, plates, even a book called “Laika, Space Dog. Friend of the People.” America, at the time, was behind in the race, but would eventually send monkeys into space. The Soviets figured stray dogs wouldn’t be missed.

Dogs are a reminder for us. They were the first animals that we domesticated. The first to migrate with us across continents. They are our constant, understanding companions and have never left us, despite our failings. Dogs humanize us, something to remember as we begin to humanize space.

Now we are taking our giant steps into space. Not just rockets blasting off from the United States, Russia, and China, but from India, French Guiana, Japan, Kazakhstan. And more to follow. Humans in space? Check. Humans on the moon? Check. Humans on the International Space Station? Check. Humans on Mars? Yes, we’ll get there. And beyond. Because we are not alone in the universe. We are just a small part of that vast canopy of night sky that holds so much attraction for us. I, for one, will never get tired of looking up at night and wondering, “Who or what is out there?”

A slightly shorter version was originally published in County Living Magazine, Sept. 2019.

Going, going...but not gone

I couldn't let this moment in history pass without pausing to look skyward.

The article, from the Associated Press, was in today's paper on page 11. The headline read "Voyager 1 probe has left the solar system." Left the solar system!! That's not the kind of event you read about every day. NASA actually thinks it might have left our solar system a year ago but they couldn't be sure until now.

That's the kind of event I used to read about in short stories and novels, a long row of books that sat on the shelf in my bedroom. Stories by Heinlein, Van Vogt, Asimov, Clarke, Bradbury, Leinster, and others. Stories set in some distant time and place.

But now, in my lifetime, something had been sent from Earth and was now moving through interstellar space. The article states, "...the spacecraft has escaped the sun's influence and is now cruising 11 1/2 billion miles away in interstellar space."

That's a great word. "Interstellar." I can just hear Ray Bradbury saying, "See? I told you." 

So where is it going? you might ask. According to some experts, it's headed for Alpha Centarui, the nearest star. That should take about 40,000 years,  which will be about the same time the Cubs win the pennant. 

When Voyager 1 lifted off and headed for space, the year was 1977. Aboard was a gold-plated record which contained, among other sounds, some representative music of Earth. So whoever finds the ship, in whatever galaxy, in whatever eon, and unforeseen dimension, will have to have a turntable. If they do, they'll hear Bach's Bradenberg Concerto #2 in F (just the first movement. Too much Bach is not a friendly gesture); Chuck Berry singing his classic "Johnny B. Goode;" Louis Armstrong and his Hot Seven with "Melancholy Blues" - not sure why they chose that tune - and Blind Willie Johnson with "Dark Was the Night." 

No rap, no Pit Bull, no theme song from "The Sopranos." See how far we've come in the past 36 years? 

Next time you look up at the night sky and see the stars - assuming you can see through the urban haze - think about Voyager 1.

Imagine this cold, metal disc hurtling through the space between the stars. A hopeful hand reaching out from Earth, perhaps eventually to tap some alien life form on the shoulder and say, "We're here with you." Then, with a stroke of luck or technical ingenuity, that distant being will put the disc on a turntable, drop the stylus into the groove, and hear Chuck Berry's opening guitar licks as he moves into Johnny B. Goode. 
And that being will say, "Cool. I wish I could play like that.
"Chuck & "Johnny B. Goode" on Soul Train 1973