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Of Hominids and Humans

Of Hominids and Humans

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I wasn’t planning to read the entire Washington Post story today about Swedish geneticist Svante Paabo’s Nobel Prize in medicine, but the more I learned the more captivated I was. Paabo’s research into prehistoric DNA, a field he’s credited with founding, has shone a light on ancient humans, including Neanderthals and a new species of early hominid he discovered, the Denisovan. 

Paabo’s work has implications for human health in 2022: a genetic risk factor for severe Covid was inherited from Neanderthals, and 1 to 2 percent of non-African people have Neanderthal DNA. 

While the early hominid science was inspiring, it was the humanity of the scientist that touched me most. The photo accompanying the article showed a laughing Paabo being thrown into a pond by his colleagues at the Max Planck Institute. Paabo told reporters that when he got the call from Sweden at his home in Germany, he thought it was someone calling to tell him his summer house there had a plumbing problem.  

And finally, he gave a lovely tribute to his mother during his remarks. “The biggest influence in life was my mother, with whom I grew up,” Paabo said. “It makes me a bit sad that she can’t experience this day.” 

(A Neanderthal skull unearthed in Israel. Courtesy Wikipedia.)

The Butterfly Effect

The Butterfly Effect

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It’s a beautiful day here, with a light breeze, low humidity and hummingbirds topping up frequently at the nectar bar. The perfect day to take breaks in the yard, picking up sticks and pulling stilt grass.

A few minutes ago the chainsaws revving in the distance finally claimed their victim as Folkstone lost another of its giant oaks. By now I recognize the harbingers, those first crashing-through-brush sounds that are followed by the thud of a massive trunk hitting the earth. I almost felt the ground shake. And I wasn’t the only one. A distant dog began to bark, too. 

It made me think of the butterfly effect, a part of chaos theory which posits that small changes can have large effects, with the oft-used metaphorical example of a tornado’s path being affected by the flapping of a butterfly’s wings far away. 

Although that example is a simplification, small changes do have big consequences. We see it all the time in our lives, in everything from the first tiny crack in a windshield to the first small rupture in a relationship. I think that’s why the concept of the butterfly effect caught the popular imagination. And why I thought of today, as the tree fell and the dog barked and I … wrote my post about it.

The Plague

The Plague

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And so it begins. The averted handshake at this morning’s Ash Wednesday service. The shunning on Metro of anyone who’s coughing or sniffling. The headlines and newscasts and public health warnings.

It will worsen, no doubt. There will be closures and restrictions, dire predictions. There will be confusion and panic. Truth will be elusive.

It’s no less than what other eras have had to bear, but for us it will be novel (in more ways than one).  Because we were raised with vaccines not quarantines.

I’m reminded of the ending of one of my favorite novels, Albert Camus’ The Plague:

He knew what those jubilant crowds did not know but could have learned from books: that the plague bacillus never dies or disappears for good; that it can lie dormant for years and years in furniture and linen chests; that it bides its time in bedrooms, cellars, trunks and bookshelves; and that perhaps the day would come when, for the bane and the enlightening of men, it would rouse up its rats again and send them forth to die in a happy city. 

Top of the World

Top of the World

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As I sit snug in my house with a dusting of snow on the ground and trees, I read about a land where snow and ice reign — or at least reign for a little while longer.

The research vessel Polestern is part of the Multidisciplinary drifting Observatory for the Study of Arctic Climate (MOSAIC), the largest Arctic research expedition in history. It is studying the polar ice cap that sits at the top of the world.

The researchers recently spoke to a Washington Post reporter about what they’ve been encountering there. The resulting article read like one of those great polar adventure stories. At one point the scientists heard a low “grumble” and realized that the large floe to which they’d anchored their vessel was splitting apart. They once had to kayak across a newly formed channel to reach their instruments.

“We are teetering at the edge of feasibility,” said the co-coordinator for the MOSAIC expedition, Matthew Shupe. In the not-so-distant future, he said, “setting up an ice camp for a whole year is not going to be possible.”

But he and the other scientists can’t imagine being anywhere else. Said Shupe: “It is so cool to be embedded in the middle of this new Arctic state.”

(Photo: mosaic-expedition.org)

Entropy, Part 1

Entropy, Part 1

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I’ve been interested in entropy since I read David Christian’s book Origin Story, though I realize that saying one is interested in entropy is like saying one is interested in gravity.  Let’s just say I’ve been fascinated by the idea that the world will end not with a bang or a whimper but with a return to the disorder from which it sprang (though disorder will in fact be simplicity, which is part of the confusion I would like to explore).

My “readings” on entropy are purely amateur. The great physics text Wikipedia, for example, and a site I found called Ask an Astronomer. Is there a book yet called Entropy for Dummies? No, but there is one called Thermodynamics for Dummies.

Because entropy—the natural tendency of things to become more disordered over time (a phrase I’m borrowing from James Clear)—is actually the Second Law of Thermodynamics.

This is scary territory for an English major, someone to whom higher math is Algebra II and whose high school physics teacher was prone to saying, “Miss Cassidy, why are you in my class?”

But at this point in my life, I say why not try and learn a little about entropy. If I believe in the Second Law–and does one have a choice?—it isn’t going to get any easier.

Seismic Joy

Seismic Joy

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I like the thought of jumping for joy, of arms raised, fists pumped; of running in circles because you don’t know what else to do with yourself; because there’s just so much good feeling it won’t stay put, must bubble out — all the physical expressions of positive emotion.

I didn’t know until yesterday, though, that when enough people jump for joy at the same time, it can actually cause an earthquake. Not a monstrous one, but one that can be detected on seismic read-outs like the one above. Apparently this happened on Sunday in Mexico, when cheering fans erupted with jumping and dancing when Mexico upset Germany in World Cup soccer play.

And it’s not the first time. A seismograph a block away from where the Seattle Seahawks scored the winning touchdown in the 2011 Super Bowl registered what it called the “12 Man Earthquake” or “the Beast Quake.” (This from my favorite weather site, The Capital Weather Gang.)

I bet there were some mini-tremblors in D.C. week before last when the Caps won the Stanley Cup. And I’m not ruling out seismic activity in Lexington, Kentucky, in late March or early April of  1978, 1996, 1998 or 2012, all recent wins of the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tourney.

Human-made quakes? Why not? They underline our connection with the earth, our influence over it, that it shakes and shimmies and trembles with our joy.

(Seismograph read-out courtesy Washington Post Capital Weather Gang)

The Howling

The Howling

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We’re back to winter here, with a blast of Arctic air that’s sending us down to 10 degrees wind chill tonight. Back to three layers, plus coat, hat, gloves and scarf.

Inside, it’s warm and cozy — as long as I ignore the wind.

Why does the wind howl, anyway? It’s a question I’ve been asking myself this winter.

When wind whips around a building or a tree, it splits up. The sound comes from the two currents rejoining on the other side, according to an article on the website Mental Floss.

Leafy trees absorb more of the vibration than bare ones do, so the howling is louder this time of year.

The explanation makes sense, but doesn’t stop the goosebumps. A howling wind is still a scary sound — even with a scientific explanation.

Bone Deep

Bone Deep

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I read in the newspaper this morning a report about the strength of prehistoric women’s arms.  Although at first glance this falls into the “yeah, right, what else is new?” category, it was fascinating to view the list of chores that researchers think account for the difference:

Tilling the soil with digging sticks (the plow had yet to be invented)
Grinding the grain with stones
Milking goats or cows and processing the milk
Making pottery
Turning wool and skins into textiles

“We’ve largely been underestimating the scale of this work,” said Alison McIntosh of Cambridge, an author of the report. All this physical activity produced bones that were larger and stronger — but also showed signs of strain. These long-ago women routinely did more than they should.

While the shin bones of modern female athletes compare to those of prehistoric women, the arm bones are another matter. The ancient women’s bones appeared even stronger (and more strained) that those of current female crew team members.

I think of these prehistoric women digging and grinding, I think of my own puny arms, of my life of ease, sitting at a desk, typing words on a small keyboard.  It’s good to be reminded of the difference.

Observe the Moon

Observe the Moon

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On a tour of the Johnson Space Center yesterday I learned that tonight is International Observe the Moon Night, a date set aside each year to look at and learn about Earth’s satellite. I didn’t even know there was such an event, but I consider myself lucky that I learned about it where I did.

Home of moon rocks and interplanetary dust, of an intact Saturn rocket housed in a building as impossibly long as it is impossibly tall, the Johnson Space Center is also where the Orion spacecraft is coming to life. Orion is built for interplanetary travel — and will someday take humans to Mars.

Also on the Space Center campus is the historic mission control center: the place where nine Gemini and all the Apollo missions were monitored, where scientists scrambled to bring Apollo 13 astronauts back to Earth, where cheers erupted when the words came crackling through the monitors: “The Eagle has landed.”

It was the moon they saw, the same moon we can see tonight. Only for the first time in history, a human footprint was outlined in its dust.

Ripples in Space

Ripples in Space

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Yesterday’s announcement of the discovery of gravitational waves, a phenomenon that Einstein  predicted but which had not been observed until now, does not exactly make me slap my forehead and say, “I knew it, I knew they were going to figure that out one of these days.”

I had no idea that gravitational waves were even in the maybe column. Physics for me will always be a high school class I somehow registered for without the required calculus and Mr. Taylor peering over his glasses to say, “Miss Cassidy, WHY are you in my class?” 

But after reading about the “chirp” scientists heard after converting gravitational waves to sound waves, a “chirp” that had for decades eluded them, I wanted to learn more about gravitational waves, these “ripples in the fabric of space.”

“Gravitational waves provide a completely new way of looking at the
Universe,” Stephen Hawking said upon learning of the discovery. “The ability to detect them has the potential to revolutionize
astronomy. This discovery is the first detection of a black hole binary
system and the first observation of black holes merging.”

Black holes merging. Ripples in space. Kinda puts everything else in perspective, doesn’t it?

(Photo: Phys.org.)