A Super Duper Nighthawk
Observing the Supernova & Appreciating Ponds
Vol. 164, August 5th, 2025 Published a Day Early Online
Audio version here: https://on.soundcloud.com/pry7kt226nMqP21JbK
Super Duper
The mosquito whined, the frogs chanted in the sweltering night, and I was on the hunt. Somewhere out in the blackness glimmered a rare light that would be found. I moved the telescope east, taking aim near Pegasus’ hoof.
A pale smudge swam into the eyepiece field of view, the “deer lick” galaxy, 40 million light years distant, looking like a badly-erased star or a blur on the lens, barely a ghost of an idea. Nothing. I zoomed in. And again. There! Near the core of this faint wisp of light, a star gone supernova–a rare sight indeed. The glow of this distant galaxy is billions of stars too distant to resolve, with one exception. One “just” blew up, and it’s shining so brightly, we can see it across this staggering distance (A light year is 5.88 trillion miles. Multiply by 40 million to get to our target.)
Still, it looked like any of the dozens of stars in the view through the telescope. I did the math: the other stars I saw were roughly 100 light years away, living our our Milky Way galaxy. If we picture them as a streetlight shining down the block, the supernova would look like a streetlight too–but it would be on the moon. That’s how much farther away it is (and how much brighter).
But how bright?
Super Duper bright.
(Look at this image that Myron Wasiuta captured the other night.)
Type Ia Supernova, Visualized
When a white dwarf star (R) cannibalizes its companion star (L), but “eats too much”, it blows up in a spectacular style.
Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week
A way (like this). “I want you to pick them berries this a way.”
Happy Birthday American Bandstand
Dick Clark’s hit show begins to air nationally today in 1957.
Quote for the Day
“The genius, wit, and spirit of a nation are discovered in its proverbs.”
–Bacon
Song of the Week: “Reverie, L.68”
Debussy’s piano composition is both misty and achingly beautiful. Don’t spin records? You can find it on YouTube.
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The Nighthawk is a new old-fashioned way to connect, published weekly. You’re invited to write back, or just enjoy reading. Let’s have some fun! It’s a social paper! Send stories, etc to: PO Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or Joshurban@protonmail.com
Letters from Josh
(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #244)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc.: Joy To The World
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! “You ever hear that song?” I asked the kid. “I’m not saying that you’re a bullfrog, it’s just in the song from Three Dog Night, a band before your time.”
He wasn’t convinced. I should have got him the record. People probably go the Biblical route when he says his name. I guess the band complicated the reading of the prophets, too.
Jeremiah was a bullfrog / was a good friend of mine / I never understood a single word he said / but I helped him drink his wine / and he always had some mighty fine wine / singin’ joy to the world.
Speaking of good songs and bullfrogs, they’ve been singing in the back pond. I ducked out this evening to say hello.
This pond isn’t fancy, more of a puddle, choked with weeds, like that Dr. Seuss book McElligot’s pool. What a story that is: A kid fishes in it, staying optimistic when the farmer scoffs at him. “You never know what you’ll find” the kid insists, imagining an underground connection to the ocean, and a host of fish as only the good doctor could draw. There’s something about a pond.
I crouched quietly and watched. The snake doctors–dragonflies–were out by the dozens, winging through the late sunshine. A great egret, majestic with his snowy feathers, paused his hunt to eye me suspiciously. Closer, on a raft of plants, a green heron froze. I waited patiently. He went back to stalking his dinner, looking punk-rock when he raised his Mohawk crest. Gulp! He got something. Seems everyone but me likes frog legs.
Horses and cows used to wallow here, but those were the old days. Now it’s bullfrogs and the occasional turtle. The wood ducks paddled it every day in the spring. Pigeons and crows and vultures and even a spotted sandpiper will visit for a drink at the lily-pad bar.
It sounded like a fawn fell in the drink one day, bleating for it’s mother. I went to investigate. Then the bleating started from the other side of the pond. Must be a frog. Turns out we have Fowler’s toads around here. Who knew?
A pond is Times Square of the country. Like the Big Apple, it ramps up as dusk falls. The bats wheel ceaselessly like taxis, and the bullfrogs start their throbbing jug-o-rum, some street hawkers selling umbrellas or tickets to a cut-rate Broadway show. Tiny cricket frogs, their call sounding like two marbles clicked together, crank up their noise, and the whole thing sounds like a Geiger counter or the glad roar of life in the metropolis.
If the weather’s good, I’ll set up a telescope on the back porch and cruise the summer skies. The other night, there were so many stars above, and so many frogs singing in the pond below, that the darkness, usually sad and empty, seemed to be the space between notes in some cosmic symphony.
You might say I’m too poetic, but I’d have to agree with Jeremiah The Bullfrog. Joy To The World indeed.
– Josh