"Of course, the whole point of a Doomsday Machine is lost, if you keep it a secret."
-Doctor Strangelove
On this date in 1908, Edward Teller was born.
The brilliant but eccentric Teller was born in Hungary, and was born with the name Teller Ede. His family was Jewish, and growing up in the politically tempestuous Hungary of the early 20th century made him deeply distrust totalitarian government. He studied under both Enrico Fermi and Niels Bohr, and emigrated to the United States, along with his wife Mici. There he made several interesting breakthroughs, such as his prediction of Jahn-Teller distortions, and there he also began his interest in nuclear energy.
Teller joined the Manhattan Project in 1942. In an episode that speaks volumes about his level of confidence in his abilities, and hi scientific curiosity, he had a famous conversation with Fermi about the potential of the atomic bomb. They argued over whether an even more powerful blast would be possible by using atomic fission to set off a second fusion reaction. While the first atomic bomb was 3 years away, Teller had already begun imagining the Hydrogen bomb. He contributed in several ways to the development of the first atomic bomb, and always kept the H-bomb, or "Super" as he called it, in the back of his head.
He would go on to be known as the father of the H-bomb. The whole idea was largely ignored or marginalized until the Soviets tested an atomic bomb of their own. Teller's hydrogen bomb idea seemed like the obvious next step, and he was central in its design and execution.
Teller is remembered mainly for his H-bomb work, but is really a symbol of the optimism, sometimes blind, that we had towards atomic power in the 1950s and '60s. He was a leading advocate of peacetime uses for the atomic bomb, most famously recommending the use of a hydrogen bomb to create a deep-water port at Point Hope, Alaska. At some point in the early 1960s, cooler heads prevailed, but the plan, called Project Chariot, went farther than anyone likes to admit. He also pressed for the use of nuclear weapons in excavation for oil, a seemingly questionable bit of logic that also failed to see the light of day.
Teller remained a public figure well into the 1980s. In 1979, he took on what he perceived as an unfair attack on nuclear energy in the form of the film "The China Syndrome". He wrote an ad in the New York Times blasting Fonda and Ralph Nader for their rants against nuclear power, claiming that his tireless efforts against them had actually caused his heart attack. He wrote "You might say that I was the only one whose health was affected by that reactor near Harrisburg (referring to Three Mile Island). No, that would be wrong. It was not the reactor. It was Jane Fonda. Reactors are not dangerous."
Teller was a unique man, even among the eccentric brain trust that was the Manhattan Project. While many of his colleagues eventually saw the dangers of nuclear proliferation and became strong opponents of the use of nuclear weapons, he remained a stalwart supporter of them. He made enemies of Oppenheimer, Stanislaw Ulam, and Nobel laureate Isidor Rabi, among others, and his isolation made him that much easier to label a "mad scientist". But though I disagree with many of his views, to remember Edward Teller as "mad" would be grossly unfair. He was a fine physicist, a brilliant man, who believed that he was serving the cause of peace. I personally have always questioned the logic of peace through the most extreme destruction man has ever devised, but I also find it hard to imagine the terror of believing that a Nazi atomic bomb was possible, especially for an ethnic Jew from Hungary cursed with the knowledge of what such a device could do.
15 January 2008
14 January 2008
Maury's Faith
On this date in 1806, Matthew Fontaine Maury was born.
Maury was a true cross-disciplinary scientist. A published astronomer, oceanographer and geologist, he is best known for his work on oceanic geology, or perhaps as one of the great mediators between science and religion, a need as dire today as it was 200 years ago.
As one would expect of a 19th century man of learning, Matthew grew up in an educated family. His grandfather was Reverend James Maury, teacher of both James Madison and Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson even lived with the Maurys for two years. James emphasized geography, making it a central part of his lessons, and is widely credited with encouraging young Jefferson's later push to settle the West.
After the death of his beloved brother John, an officer in the Navy, Matthew's parents forbade him to enter naval service. Then, as now, there was no way to better encourage a curious mind than to forbid it something, and Matthew entered the Navy in 1825. He would, from that point forward, always remain in love with the sea, even after a shipboard injury forced him to abandon sailing at the age of 33.
One of his best-known studies had rather mixed effects, depending on your perspective. He was the first to systematically chart whale sightings, realizing that the great whales were migratory and followed certain paths. While this was, of course, a revelation in marine biology, and a hugely important biological finding, it also led to far more efficient harvesting of whales, to the point that populations could not withstand.
Maury was also a founding member of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. During the Civil War, he developed a new form of torpedo for the South that had serious implications for enemy shipping. Had he been on the Northern side, he may have been remembered as a hero, but his scientific achievements are largely lost in his allegiance to the South.
Above all else, though, Maury was a man of faith. He quoted scripture, read the Bible daily, and was by all accounts a strictly Christian man. His science was a profession, and a great love of his, but never interfered with his beliefs, nor vice versa. Some so-called creation scientists would put him forward as an example of someone that would clearly take their side today, but I have to disagree. I think he would be, as many scientists today are, more of a spectator in the conflict between religion and science, and I like to believe that a man so dedicated to both ways of knowing saw no reason why they should be so at odds.
Tomorrow, The Real Dr. Strangelove
Maury was a true cross-disciplinary scientist. A published astronomer, oceanographer and geologist, he is best known for his work on oceanic geology, or perhaps as one of the great mediators between science and religion, a need as dire today as it was 200 years ago.
As one would expect of a 19th century man of learning, Matthew grew up in an educated family. His grandfather was Reverend James Maury, teacher of both James Madison and Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson even lived with the Maurys for two years. James emphasized geography, making it a central part of his lessons, and is widely credited with encouraging young Jefferson's later push to settle the West.
After the death of his beloved brother John, an officer in the Navy, Matthew's parents forbade him to enter naval service. Then, as now, there was no way to better encourage a curious mind than to forbid it something, and Matthew entered the Navy in 1825. He would, from that point forward, always remain in love with the sea, even after a shipboard injury forced him to abandon sailing at the age of 33.
One of his best-known studies had rather mixed effects, depending on your perspective. He was the first to systematically chart whale sightings, realizing that the great whales were migratory and followed certain paths. While this was, of course, a revelation in marine biology, and a hugely important biological finding, it also led to far more efficient harvesting of whales, to the point that populations could not withstand.
Maury was also a founding member of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. During the Civil War, he developed a new form of torpedo for the South that had serious implications for enemy shipping. Had he been on the Northern side, he may have been remembered as a hero, but his scientific achievements are largely lost in his allegiance to the South.
Above all else, though, Maury was a man of faith. He quoted scripture, read the Bible daily, and was by all accounts a strictly Christian man. His science was a profession, and a great love of his, but never interfered with his beliefs, nor vice versa. Some so-called creation scientists would put him forward as an example of someone that would clearly take their side today, but I have to disagree. I think he would be, as many scientists today are, more of a spectator in the conflict between religion and science, and I like to believe that a man so dedicated to both ways of knowing saw no reason why they should be so at odds.
Tomorrow, The Real Dr. Strangelove
13 January 2008
Darwin and the Anglican Church
On this date in 1938, the Church of England officially recognized, and accepted, the theory of evolution.
That's 70 years ago today. An interesting thing to ponder as we face another round of religion vs. evolution in our own time. In Florida, Bill Foster is running for mayor of St. Petersburg, and has publicly linked Darwinism with the Columbine shootings and other tragedies. (Thanks to Pharyngula for the link). On the federal scale, we have a major candidate for President, in Mike Huckabee, who is clearly against the teaching of evolution in schools.
So how did the Church of England, a sect with a long history going back to the fourth century, come to accept Darwin's theory of evolution by natural selection? Perhaps the decision had its roots in the church's pride in its native son. After all, Darwin did attend a Church of England school. The decision was part of the 1938 Commission on Doctrine, but if one man was responsible for its passing, it would have to be Bishop Ernest William Barnes.
Barnes was part of what may have been the last generation of the scientist/priest. A mathematician and fellow of the Royal Society, he was also an avid biological collector, and made frequent trips into the wild to observe and collect. In 1927, he wrote a famous letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury, in which he outlined his beliefs in evolution and promised "to show why they did not seem to upset the main Christian position". In a brilliant turn of phrase, he finished his letter "No man shall drive me to Tennessee or to Rome." Only two years before, the state of Tennessee had made its famous case against John Scopes, in the so-called "Monkey trial".
He was hardly the first or the only voice in favor of evolution, but he may have been the best known. His view that theology "must take into account the God of Nature revealed by science" was an insight that many of us would welcome eighty years after he wrote it. He and his kind managed to convince the Church of England to officially accept evolution, and to deny any claim that it somehow undermined or conflicted with their teachings. Though the debate continues even within the Church of England, we can look back on this as a victory not only for the proponents of evolution, but for the much larger populace that yearns for science and religion to more easily coexist, as two forces which should, at their best, make human life better.
Fittingly, tomorrow's article is Maury's Faith.
That's 70 years ago today. An interesting thing to ponder as we face another round of religion vs. evolution in our own time. In Florida, Bill Foster is running for mayor of St. Petersburg, and has publicly linked Darwinism with the Columbine shootings and other tragedies. (Thanks to Pharyngula for the link). On the federal scale, we have a major candidate for President, in Mike Huckabee, who is clearly against the teaching of evolution in schools.
So how did the Church of England, a sect with a long history going back to the fourth century, come to accept Darwin's theory of evolution by natural selection? Perhaps the decision had its roots in the church's pride in its native son. After all, Darwin did attend a Church of England school. The decision was part of the 1938 Commission on Doctrine, but if one man was responsible for its passing, it would have to be Bishop Ernest William Barnes.
Barnes was part of what may have been the last generation of the scientist/priest. A mathematician and fellow of the Royal Society, he was also an avid biological collector, and made frequent trips into the wild to observe and collect. In 1927, he wrote a famous letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury, in which he outlined his beliefs in evolution and promised "to show why they did not seem to upset the main Christian position". In a brilliant turn of phrase, he finished his letter "No man shall drive me to Tennessee or to Rome." Only two years before, the state of Tennessee had made its famous case against John Scopes, in the so-called "Monkey trial".
He was hardly the first or the only voice in favor of evolution, but he may have been the best known. His view that theology "must take into account the God of Nature revealed by science" was an insight that many of us would welcome eighty years after he wrote it. He and his kind managed to convince the Church of England to officially accept evolution, and to deny any claim that it somehow undermined or conflicted with their teachings. Though the debate continues even within the Church of England, we can look back on this as a victory not only for the proponents of evolution, but for the much larger populace that yearns for science and religion to more easily coexist, as two forces which should, at their best, make human life better.
Fittingly, tomorrow's article is Maury's Faith.
12 January 2008
The League of Extraordinary Scots
On this date in 1808, the first organizational meeting of the Wernerian Natural History Society was held.
You'd be forgiven for not having heard of the Wernerian Society. Even among Scottish learned societies, it is not terribly well known, but it was an important meeting place for the intellectuals of Edinburgh, which was, many forget, a major center of European scientific thought in the 1800s.
The Society was founded by Robert Jameson, a professor at Edinburgh University. He had worked, briefly, under the great geologist Abraham Gottlob Werner. Werner is one of those tragic historical scientists whose name will always be associated with one wrong idea. His theory of Neptunism, which should at least get some credit for having a very cool name, incorrectly postulated that all rocks were the result of the crystallization of minerals from an early ocean which had covered the entire world. Under Neptunism, it was assumed that all the Earth was originally under miles of water, and that minerals had simply come out of suspension in the water and settled into sedimentary layers. Now we know many aspects of this theory to be false, though I still love the idea of a pure water planet.
Werner should be remembered not only for his one wrong idea, but for his other contributions to geology. He wrote the first modern textbook on mineralogy in 1774, and was above all else a fantastic teacher. One student, Jameson, who studied with him for only a year, proceeded to dedicate a large portion of his own life to a society named after Werner, a tribute to the way he had of entrancing his students.
Members of the Wernerian Society included botanist William Wright, whose collections of plants in Jamaica and elsewhere led to the descriptions of over 800 new species. The chemist Thomas Thomson was also a founding member. The society had 44 meetings in its history, which included visits by such luminaries as American ornithologist John James Audubon and Sir John Richardson, who described to the society the animals found on his overland Arctic expedition.
The Wernerian Society did not long survive after the death of its founder, Jameson, in 1854, but while it lasted, it was a hotbed of new ideas and an important part of the intellectual history of Scotland, Europe and in fact the world.
Tomorrow, Darwin and the Anglican Church
You'd be forgiven for not having heard of the Wernerian Society. Even among Scottish learned societies, it is not terribly well known, but it was an important meeting place for the intellectuals of Edinburgh, which was, many forget, a major center of European scientific thought in the 1800s.
The Society was founded by Robert Jameson, a professor at Edinburgh University. He had worked, briefly, under the great geologist Abraham Gottlob Werner. Werner is one of those tragic historical scientists whose name will always be associated with one wrong idea. His theory of Neptunism, which should at least get some credit for having a very cool name, incorrectly postulated that all rocks were the result of the crystallization of minerals from an early ocean which had covered the entire world. Under Neptunism, it was assumed that all the Earth was originally under miles of water, and that minerals had simply come out of suspension in the water and settled into sedimentary layers. Now we know many aspects of this theory to be false, though I still love the idea of a pure water planet.
Werner should be remembered not only for his one wrong idea, but for his other contributions to geology. He wrote the first modern textbook on mineralogy in 1774, and was above all else a fantastic teacher. One student, Jameson, who studied with him for only a year, proceeded to dedicate a large portion of his own life to a society named after Werner, a tribute to the way he had of entrancing his students.
Members of the Wernerian Society included botanist William Wright, whose collections of plants in Jamaica and elsewhere led to the descriptions of over 800 new species. The chemist Thomas Thomson was also a founding member. The society had 44 meetings in its history, which included visits by such luminaries as American ornithologist John James Audubon and Sir John Richardson, who described to the society the animals found on his overland Arctic expedition.
The Wernerian Society did not long survive after the death of its founder, Jameson, in 1854, but while it lasted, it was a hotbed of new ideas and an important part of the intellectual history of Scotland, Europe and in fact the world.
Tomorrow, Darwin and the Anglican Church
11 January 2008
Jedlik and the Dynamo
On this date in 1800, Anyos Jedlik was born in Hungary.
If the name doesn't immediately ring bells, that's understandable. Jedlik is best known in engineering circles, but even there, he gets nowhere near the respect or remembrance he deserves. Jedlik is one of the Alfred Russell Wallaces, the men who made discoveries along with, or in Jedlik's case before, the people credited with them, but who for one reason or another have faded into the background of history. Wallace has enjoyed a bit of a comeback, with modern biologists granting him the credit he deserves for basically having the same idea as Darwin at about the same time. Jedlik has gotten no such surge, and it's a shame.
Anyos Jedlik was a true Renaissance man, and excelled in many areas of study. He was a priest, a physicist, an inventor, and an engineer. He should be above all else remembered as a teacher. He wrote the first textbook, and taught the first university classes, in physics in the Hungarian language. Up until that point, physics was taught in Latin, and Jedlik really did nothing less than translate an entire science into his native tongue for his countrymen. He lectured at Budapest University of Sciences for 40 years, and helped to foster a whole generation of Hungarian scientists.
Jedlik's most important invention, and the one for whom he is truly an unsung genius, is the dynamo. Though Werner von Siemens is given credit for the invention of the device, Jedlik's dynamo predates Seimens' by six years. However, by the time he got around to publishing it, Siemens had published his own and begun marketing it commercially. Soon, Seimens was a well-known name, and he would continue on to have such honors as a unit named for him. A seimen is the SI unit of conductance. There are no scales that measure in jedliks.
Jedlik's accomplishment shouldn't necessarily take anything away from Siemens. After all, having an idea isn't always the hardest part, and credit often belongs to the person with the ability to make an invention commonly applicable to people's lives, not just invent it. Just as Wallace's attention takes nothing away from Darwin, we should accept that many of history's geniuses were not alone in their discoveries, but instead were simply the ones that were most able to bring that discovery to market. And then there are Einsteins, who really do come out of nowhere with discoveries and theories that might not have been made for 50 years had he not made them, but that's a story for another day.
Tomorrow, The League of Extraordinary Scots.
If the name doesn't immediately ring bells, that's understandable. Jedlik is best known in engineering circles, but even there, he gets nowhere near the respect or remembrance he deserves. Jedlik is one of the Alfred Russell Wallaces, the men who made discoveries along with, or in Jedlik's case before, the people credited with them, but who for one reason or another have faded into the background of history. Wallace has enjoyed a bit of a comeback, with modern biologists granting him the credit he deserves for basically having the same idea as Darwin at about the same time. Jedlik has gotten no such surge, and it's a shame.
Anyos Jedlik was a true Renaissance man, and excelled in many areas of study. He was a priest, a physicist, an inventor, and an engineer. He should be above all else remembered as a teacher. He wrote the first textbook, and taught the first university classes, in physics in the Hungarian language. Up until that point, physics was taught in Latin, and Jedlik really did nothing less than translate an entire science into his native tongue for his countrymen. He lectured at Budapest University of Sciences for 40 years, and helped to foster a whole generation of Hungarian scientists.
Jedlik's most important invention, and the one for whom he is truly an unsung genius, is the dynamo. Though Werner von Siemens is given credit for the invention of the device, Jedlik's dynamo predates Seimens' by six years. However, by the time he got around to publishing it, Siemens had published his own and begun marketing it commercially. Soon, Seimens was a well-known name, and he would continue on to have such honors as a unit named for him. A seimen is the SI unit of conductance. There are no scales that measure in jedliks.
Jedlik's accomplishment shouldn't necessarily take anything away from Siemens. After all, having an idea isn't always the hardest part, and credit often belongs to the person with the ability to make an invention commonly applicable to people's lives, not just invent it. Just as Wallace's attention takes nothing away from Darwin, we should accept that many of history's geniuses were not alone in their discoveries, but instead were simply the ones that were most able to bring that discovery to market. And then there are Einsteins, who really do come out of nowhere with discoveries and theories that might not have been made for 50 years had he not made them, but that's a story for another day.
Tomorrow, The League of Extraordinary Scots.
09 January 2008
The Great Northwestern Gale
On this date in 1880 ...
It seems appropriate today to do a post about extreme weather. I live in the Pacific Northwest, and though the winter is always wet, this season has been unusually gray and rainy. A puddle that stresses the definition of puddle and probably deserves to be a pond sits right outside my front door, and occasionally seeps in a bit. You only have to go up about 500 feet for all the water to turn into snow, and there's plenty of that at elevation.
But if I was alive 128 years ago today, today's nasty winter weather would be but a pleasant fantasy, because on this date in 1880, one of the greatest winter storms in American history hit the Pacific Northwest.
Unfortunately, the region was lacking modern measurement devices to know, exactly, how fast the wind was, and how low the barometer sank. One estimate puts it at 998 mb, an extreme storm event, but we have to go on words instead of numbers to understand the ferocity of the storm. Most of the words surviving to this day are from letters to the Daily Oregonian, a newspaper in Astoria, OR. Here are a few excerpts:
"We have just experienced one of the severest gales; nothing like it has occurred since the settlement of the bay." Astoria had been officially settled 70 years earlier, in 1810.
"The tide rose seven feet higher than was ever known; nearly all the old wharves are taken away." I don't care if it's accurate or not - the phrase "seven feet higher than was ever known" is poetic in a way that letters to the editor seldom approach.
In Portland, far from the center of the storm's fury, we do get some scientific measurement of the gale. A barometer read 28.556 inches, the second lowest reading in the history of the state, and even more impressively, the fastest rate of decline in Oregon history. The barometer fell by a over quarter of an inch in 2 hours, a massive drop in so short a time. Wind speed rose from 4 to 39 miles per hour in a span of fifteen minutes. And remember, this was not where the storm first hit, in Astoria, but 72 miles inland.
So, if you're like me, and you complained today about the winter weather in the Northwest, you can be somewhat comforted that it has been a lot worse than this, and we made it through.
On Friday, Jedlik and the Dynamo
It seems appropriate today to do a post about extreme weather. I live in the Pacific Northwest, and though the winter is always wet, this season has been unusually gray and rainy. A puddle that stresses the definition of puddle and probably deserves to be a pond sits right outside my front door, and occasionally seeps in a bit. You only have to go up about 500 feet for all the water to turn into snow, and there's plenty of that at elevation.
But if I was alive 128 years ago today, today's nasty winter weather would be but a pleasant fantasy, because on this date in 1880, one of the greatest winter storms in American history hit the Pacific Northwest.
Unfortunately, the region was lacking modern measurement devices to know, exactly, how fast the wind was, and how low the barometer sank. One estimate puts it at 998 mb, an extreme storm event, but we have to go on words instead of numbers to understand the ferocity of the storm. Most of the words surviving to this day are from letters to the Daily Oregonian, a newspaper in Astoria, OR. Here are a few excerpts:
"We have just experienced one of the severest gales; nothing like it has occurred since the settlement of the bay." Astoria had been officially settled 70 years earlier, in 1810.
"The tide rose seven feet higher than was ever known; nearly all the old wharves are taken away." I don't care if it's accurate or not - the phrase "seven feet higher than was ever known" is poetic in a way that letters to the editor seldom approach.
In Portland, far from the center of the storm's fury, we do get some scientific measurement of the gale. A barometer read 28.556 inches, the second lowest reading in the history of the state, and even more impressively, the fastest rate of decline in Oregon history. The barometer fell by a over quarter of an inch in 2 hours, a massive drop in so short a time. Wind speed rose from 4 to 39 miles per hour in a span of fifteen minutes. And remember, this was not where the storm first hit, in Astoria, but 72 miles inland.
So, if you're like me, and you complained today about the winter weather in the Northwest, you can be somewhat comforted that it has been a lot worse than this, and we made it through.
On Friday, Jedlik and the Dynamo
08 January 2008
Probability and Disaster
On this date in 1906, 1908, 1962, etc, etc ...
By any measure, January the Eighth is an unusually tragic day. There may have been more separate events known popularly as "disasters" on this day than on any other of the year.
In 1906, a landslide in New York state killed 20 people. In 1908, it was a train collision in New York City. In 1962, another train wreck in Holland. Plane crashes in 1989 and 1996. An earthquake in 2006.
Even with all the disasters in world history, both natural and man-made, January 8th seems unusually rife with tragedy, and it is. Considering how rare train wrecks and plane crashes are, to have a combined four on the same calendar day within a century is a bit odd. But is it statistically notable, or just a blip on the radar, a random association of events?
In order to be fair in looking at how unusual the congregation of disasters on January 8th is, we have to define disaster in its various forms. It might be a bit morbid, but bear with me. I will define a major air disaster as one which kills 100 people or more. There have been 76 such crashes worldwide, and two occurred on January 8th. That's more than the average if they were evenly spread (about one disaster every 4 or 5 calendar days). Let's call it about 8x background levels.
There have been 48 train disasters on record, using the same criteria of 100 deaths. Fortunately for those souls aboard both trains that crashed on January 8ths, neither of them were so deadly, and statistics are harder to find on smaller crashes.
I'm losing my point a bit. It is tempting to take a look at the history of such days and look for patterns, and there may be patterns, or at least a lack of complete randomness, but it's pretty weak. Travel is much more intensive during the holiday season, and we're coming to the end of that season, so more transport inevitably means more accidents. Beyond that, though, I wouldn't run to the bomb shelter just yet. January 8th is as safe as any other day.
Tomorrow, The Great Northwest Gale
By any measure, January the Eighth is an unusually tragic day. There may have been more separate events known popularly as "disasters" on this day than on any other of the year.
In 1906, a landslide in New York state killed 20 people. In 1908, it was a train collision in New York City. In 1962, another train wreck in Holland. Plane crashes in 1989 and 1996. An earthquake in 2006.
Even with all the disasters in world history, both natural and man-made, January 8th seems unusually rife with tragedy, and it is. Considering how rare train wrecks and plane crashes are, to have a combined four on the same calendar day within a century is a bit odd. But is it statistically notable, or just a blip on the radar, a random association of events?
In order to be fair in looking at how unusual the congregation of disasters on January 8th is, we have to define disaster in its various forms. It might be a bit morbid, but bear with me. I will define a major air disaster as one which kills 100 people or more. There have been 76 such crashes worldwide, and two occurred on January 8th. That's more than the average if they were evenly spread (about one disaster every 4 or 5 calendar days). Let's call it about 8x background levels.
There have been 48 train disasters on record, using the same criteria of 100 deaths. Fortunately for those souls aboard both trains that crashed on January 8ths, neither of them were so deadly, and statistics are harder to find on smaller crashes.
I'm losing my point a bit. It is tempting to take a look at the history of such days and look for patterns, and there may be patterns, or at least a lack of complete randomness, but it's pretty weak. Travel is much more intensive during the holiday season, and we're coming to the end of that season, so more transport inevitably means more accidents. Beyond that, though, I wouldn't run to the bomb shelter just yet. January 8th is as safe as any other day.
Tomorrow, The Great Northwest Gale
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