Tag Archives: Apollo

01.30.24
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Oracles

Your New Favorite Writer is but recently returned from a visit to the famed Oracle of Delphi. 

Temple of Apollo at Delphi. Photo by Annatsach, licensed under CC-BY-SA-4.0. 

Well, not the Oracle, exactly, but the place of the Oracle—the ruins of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, Greece—which itself is often spoken of, in a modern linguistic convention, as “the Oracle of Delphi.”

Attic red-figure kylix from Vulci (Italy), 440-430 BC. Kodros Painter. Oracle of Delphi: King Aigeus in front of the Pythia. Antikensammlung Berlin, Altes Museum, F 2538. Photo by Zde, licensed under CC-BY-SA-4.0. 

The actual Oracle, however, was a high priestess, conventionally named Pythia but embodied by many generations of actual women who spoke forth from at least the eighth century B.C. (but perhaps much earlier) to the late fourth century A.D. 

Persons, representing themselves or their city-states, would come to Delphi—a place perched high on the slopes of Mount Parnassus, overlooking the Gulf of Corinth—with urgent questions bearing on their plans or hopes. 

On the seventh day of each non-winter month, the petitioners or “consultants,” in order of priority as assigned by priests or priestesses, would present their questions, and Pythia would present her answers. A long tradition says that Pythia did so in a trance-like state, influenced by toxic vapors seeping from a chasm in the ground underneath the Temple of Apollo.

The Oracle of Delphi Entranced, engraving by Heinrich Leutemann  (1824–1905). Public Domain.

Thus, the Oracle’s answers, or “oracles,” were ambiguous, easily misunderstood by the customers. Or maybe, Pythia’s utterances were pure gibberish, rearranged by the members of her subordinate priesthood into intelligible yet ambiguous formulations.

Lots of examples cited by ancient authorities such as Herodotus, Plutarch, and Diogenes Laërtius show that understanding and applying Pythia’s advice could be tricky.

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Marmota monax. Photo by Cephas, licensed under CC-BY-SA-4.0. 

We have our own oracles.

For example, this demigod, Marmota monax. What are we to make of him?

Woodchucks, we have in plenty. There is only one Groundhog, one Lawgiver of February. 

A rodent is only a rodent, but the Groundhog is an oracle.

He goes by many names: Punxsutawney Phil, Wiarton Willie, Jimmy the Groundhog, Dunkirk Dave, Staten Island Chuck, etc. But these are merely local avatars of the Universal Groundhog.

Wikipedia confides that the groundhog “is also referred to as a chuck, wood shock, groundpig, whistlepig, whistler, thickwood badger, Canada marmot, monax, moonack, weenusk, red monk, land beaver, and, among French Canadians in eastern Canada, siffleux.” 

But clearly, those terms refer to ordinary rodents.

An ordinary woodchuck preparing to chuck wood. Photo by Rodrigo.Argenton, licensed under CC-BY-SA-4.0. 

The Groundhog—the One and Only Groundhog—is said to control the weather. He controls it absolutely.

Stated baldly, the One Unitary Groundhog makes one unitary prediction, and we must all live with it for a whole season. 

“Which season is that?” 

The season of Winter-into-Spring, Dear Reader—a fraudulent season to begin with.

And how can we foretell the weather for Winter-into-Spring?

The Groundhog wakes up. Not at any old time, as a proper woodchuck would, but precisely on the second day of February. First thing in the morning.

When Groundie stumbles from his burrow, he waddles about for a while in a post-hibernial glaze. After coffee, he opens his eyes. If he sees his shadow, he goes back to bed. If he does not see his shadow, he stays up and does calisthenics. 

Punxsutawney Phil, Oracle, protected and cosseted by members of his priesthood. Photo by Anthony Quintano, licnsed under CC-BY-2.0. 

It’s that simple. A binary choice, ruled by a shadow. 

People say if the sun is shining, the Groundhog will have a shadow and can’t miss seeing it; but if the weather is overcast, there will be no shadow, hence nothing for the Groundhog to see. This may be reading too much science into the picture. The governing myth only says, “if he sees his shadow.” Parse that how you will.

Now, here’s the corker: If he sees his shadow and re-hibernates, there will be six more weeks of winter. Holy cow. 

But wait, there’s more: If he does NOT see his shadow and therefore stays out, then we shall have an early spring. 

Now, Fair Reader, we have breached the Innermost Cave, the Sanctum Sanctorum, the Mystery of Mysteries. For, in any place where anybody gives two hoots about the Groundhog, six more weeks of winter IS an early spring.

Do the math. February 2 + six weeks = March 16 most years, or March 15 in a leap year. That’s six or seven days before the Vernal Equinox, the “official” start of spring. But in most temperate climates, the real spring—meteorological, vegetative, phenological spring—does not come round until days or weeks after the Equinox. 

So, what can this rodentine Oracle be trying to tell us? In plain English, it’s not plain English. It’s mere gibberish, no more understandable than the virgin Pythia’s long-ago howls and whistles in ancient Delphi. 

Perhaps that’s why we, like a certain film character, are doomed to repeat the whole thing over and over until we get it right.

You may be forgiven, Neighbor, if you haul off and belt Ned Ryerson right in the kisser.

You have my earnest hope for brighter days, six weeks from now or sooner.

Blessings,

Larry F. Sommers

Your New Favorite Writer

04.11.23
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Space Cadets

Last week, NASA revealed the four astronauts who will fly on Artemis II, the first crewed moon mission since Apollo flights ended fifty years ago. 

NASA group photo of the Artemis Four. Public Domain.

U.S. astronauts Reid Wiseman, Victor Glover, and Christina Hammock Koch, and Canadian astronaut Jeremy Hansen, posed in their spiffy orange spacesuits, offering visual proof they are diverse as well as handsome. Their resumés show that three of the four also come densely packed with traditional test pilot skills.

Exciting as this news is, I had to stifle a yawn. 

We have stood on this threshold before. The first astronauts, the Mercury Seven, were Scott Carpenter, Gordon Cooper, John Glenn, Gus Grissom, Wally Schirra, Alan Shepard, and Deke Slayton. When they were introduced in a Washington, D.C., press conference on April 9, 1959—sixty-four years ago—America stood enthralled.

I was thirteen. It was an electrifying moment. These seven would be the world’s first spacemen. They would transform science fiction into history. 

The Pre-Space Era

Commando Cody title frame grab, 1952. Public Domain.

I can’t say how the moment seemed to adults. For us kids, the Mercury space-flight program was both exciting and satisfying. It was the due fulfillment of a long-held dream. We had been reared and nurtured on science fiction. 

Frankie Thomas as Tom Corbett, Space Cadet. Radio-TV Mirror 1951, public domain.

On radio and TV, we had ventured into space with Commander Buzz Corry and his sidekick, Cadet Happy, on Space Patrol; with Tom Corbett, Space Cadet; with Captain Video, Commando Cody, and Flash Gordon. These shows had wildly fluctuating production values, but some of their writers would appear in the enduring pantheon of the science fiction genre—Damon Knight, James Blish, Jack Vance, Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov, and Cyril M. Kornbluth, among others.

Meanwhile, at the Streator Public Library, we checked out books like Step to the Stars and Mission to the Moon, by Lester Del Rey; Rocket Ship Galileo and Citizen of the Galaxy, by Robert A. Heinlein; Islands in the Sky and Childhood’s End, by Arthur C. Clarke; and I, Robot and Foundation, by Isaac Asimov. These writers and others informed us of scientific facts and expanded our horizons beyond comic-strip space operas. 

Yeager in front of the Bell X-1 rocket plane. USAF photo, public domain.

While all this fiction intoxicated us, we were well aware of the real-life space heroes who were making science fiction come true. Men like Robert Goddard, Wernher von Braun, Colonel John Stapp, and Chuck Yeager. How could we not know about key developments when they were chronicled by such hardy publicists as Willy Ley? 

Galaxy magazine cover featuring space station article by Willy Ley. Public Domain.

The Leap Into Space

A significant subtext of all these books, stories, and articles was the blithe assumption that Americans—who else?—would pave the way to the stars. Which is why, on October 5, 1957, we kids were so well-prepared to be keenly disappointed by the news that Russia, not the United States, had launched the first man-made satellite, a healthy 184-pound baby named Sputnik.

It shocked us to learn that the much-maligned Soviet Union had the physical and intellectual wherewithal to beat the United States into space. Our whole nation had egg on its face. 

Yuri Gagarin in Finland, 1961. Finnish Museum of Photography. Public Domain.

There ensued a furious campaign to raise up more scientists and engineers, on the quick. By the time rocketry had been developed to the point where humans could ride on the front ends of the darned things, we had almost caught up.

Alan Shepard in 1961. NASA photo, public domain.

Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin rode into space on a Soviet rocket less than a month before American astronaut Alan Shepard did the same. Still, the Russians were ahead.

Later that spring, on May 25, 1961, our new president, John F. Kennedy, laid down a marker he thought America stood a good chance of redeeming: Set foot on the moon, and return safely, before the end of the decade—and, incidentally, before the Russians. 

JFK addresses a joint session of Congress May 25, 1961, and proposes the goal of a moon landing. In background, Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson and House Speaker Sam Rayburn listen. NASA photo, public domain.

The Mercury and Gemini manned space programs laid the groundwork for this achievement, and the Apollo program did it, with months to spare, by landing Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin on the moon July 20, 1969. 

The Big Letdown

Once science fiction had become fact, the wind went out of NASA’s sails. 

Five subsequent Apollo missions landed people on the moon, for a total of twelve men. Further programs like Skylab, the Space Shuttle program, and the International Space Station have kept us in space almost continuously. But these programs have the feel of a turning inward. Since reaching the moon, we have not ventured beyond.

This has come as a bit of a surprise to us children of the Fifties. Most of the science fiction we read plotted space flight as a continuous progression from the moon to Mars, and from Mars on to interstellar space. Certainly latter-day science fiction vehicles like Star Trek and Star Wars have taken that long line of development as a given.

Human affairs, however, are always a start-and-stop thing. There are wars. There are recessions. There are hesitancies and second thoughts. Funding is re-allocated. Things happen.

Now, NASA has its sights set on Mars. Establishing a permanent continuous presence on the moon will be a big first step. The Artemis Four will have their work cut out for them.

Time will tell.

Blessings,

Larry F. Sommers

Your New Favorite Writer