This morning, at oh five thirty Universal Time – or twelve thirty AM, Eastern Standard Time – the sun reached its southernmost point below the celestial equator on its ecliptic.
In other words, today is the Winter Solstice.
The Winter Solstice means many things to many peoples, but to astronomers, it means several things at once: the sun, today at noon, will be at its lowest altitude over the horizon of any day of the year, and will also be at its southernmost position in the sky; the sun will appear directly overhead the Tropic of Capricorn, the southernmost latitude where the sun can actually appear directly overhead; and there will be the fewest hours of daylight, and, consequently, the longest night, of any day of the year.
Nine hours and eighteen minutes of daylight, to be exact, according to the table for Landisburg on the U.S. Naval Observatory’s excellent website.
Of course, I’m only speaking here of the Northern Hemisphere. The Southern Hemisphere, which is currently tilted towards to the sun to the exact degree that we in the north are tilted away from it, is experiencing all the glories of mid-summer. Lucky antipodeans!
Nine hours and change isn’t a lot of daylight, especially when you compare it with this year’s Summer Solstice in June, when we were blasted by fifteen hours and three minutes of hot solar love.
Ancient civilizations kept a very close eye on the sun, for both practical and spiritual reasons. The gradual shortening of days, culminating on that dark winter day when the sun hung lowest in the sky, had strong metaphysical overtones: what if the sun is angry and goes away, never to return?
The shortest days of the year when, for about a week, the sun seemed to stand still at noon, as opposed to moving a bit lower or a bit higher in the sky with each successive day, must have been agonizingly suspenseful. Would the days stay short forever? Would the sun eventually start to sink even lower at noon, turning its back on earth and mankind?
In fact, our word “solstice” comes from the Latin for “the sun stands still,” a reflection of the sun’s apparently static altitude at noon for a few days before and a few days after the actual solstice.
The gradual elevation of the sun after the Winter Solstice, and the accompanying lengthening of days, was — and still is — viewed as a kind of celestial rebirth in many cultures, a smiling of God or gods upon mankind, and the spiritual beginning of a new year.
But here’s a question: why does the Winter Solstice mark the beginning of winter, and not the middle of it? If the earth’s surface temperature is directly related to the number of hours of daylight, coupled with the angle of the sun overhead, then why don’t the shortest days of the year, when the sun is at its lowest angle, correspond with the coldest depths of winter?
The answer lies in the fact that the earth’s atmosphere imposes a lag between the longest days of the year and hottest temperatures, and the shortest days and the coldest temperatures.
But back to the calendar. It always amazes me to think that an ancient Roman, transported two thousand years into the future, would have no trouble recognizing our modern calendar, which is virtually identical to the one introduced by Julius Caesar in 45 B.C. Many of the months’ names have stayed the same over the centuries, although we’ve shifted their position somewhat, a reflection of the fact that the Roman year started in March, as opposed to January. That’s why December, which literally means “tenth month,” is our twelfth month. Other than that, the Julian calendar is extremely familiar, with a regular year of 365 days divided into twelve months, with a leap day added to February every four years.
In the 16th century, Pope Gregory XIII introduced a new calendar to correct an 11-minute-per-year flaw in the Julian model which caused it to gain three days every four centuries or so. Most of us have been living with the Gregorian calendar ever since.
But my hat’s off to Charlemagne, who, in the ninth century, broke with Roman tradition and renamed all the months in Old High German. January became “Wintarmanoth,” or “winter month.” February was “Hornung,” or “the month when the red deer sheds his antlers.” Then came “Lentzinmanoth (Lent month);” “Ostarmanoth (Easter month);” and my personal favorite, “Wonnemanoth (love-making month).” There was plowing month, hay month, harvest month, wood month, wine-making month, late-harvest month, and finally, “Heilagmanoth,” or holy month.
I’d like to extend my very best wishes for a joyful Heilagmanoth. May the days only get longer from here!
This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 22 December 2011
For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com
