One of our most enduring and popular exhibits has been a piece of the Moon that you can touch. The rock, on loan from NASA, is one of only a few touchable lunar sample displays in the world. In fact, it was the very first touchable Moon rock exhibit when it opened to the public in 1976.
Today, other touchable lunar rock displays can be found at the Kennedy Space Center, Space Center Houston, the Museum of Science of the National Autonomous University in Mexico City, and the MacMillan Space Centre in Vancouver, Canada.
Our touchrock is a slice from a rock collected in December 1972 on the Apollo 17 mission. Apollo 17 landed in the Taurus-Littrow Valley on the edge of Mare Serenitatis (the Sea of Serenity).
Astronauts Harrison “Jack” Schmitt and Eugene Cernan brought back over 740 individual rock and soil samples and the touchrock was cut from the largest rock they gathered. Weighing in at 8 kilograms (18 pounds), it was collected at the end of their last traverse. Jack Schmitt, the only geologist who journeyed to the Moon, had noticed it earlier since it was large and located near the Lunar Module. But because of its size, he left it to pick up later.
The touchrock is a type of rock called basalt. It is a fine-grained, dark-colored, igneous rock rich in iron, magnesium, and plagioclase feldspar, a common rock-forming mineral on Earth. Like many lunar basalts, the touchrock contains more titanium than normal Earth basalts.
Our little Moon rock has had quite a journey. It formed 3.8 billion years ago in hot lava that poured out onto the terrain. Then, 100 million to 125 million years ago it was exposed on the surface, probably by a crater impact. In 1972, a geologist picked it up and brought it back to Earth. Finally, it found a home in the Museum in 1976. This July, with the opening of our new Boeing Milestones of Flight Hall, the touchrock will receive a newly designed display right next to the Lunar Module (LM-2).
If you get a chance to visit the Boeing Milestones of Flight Hall, be sure to take to moment to touch a piece of another world.
Priscilla Strain is a program manager in the Museum’s Center for Earth and Planetary Studies and the curator for the Museum’s lunar samples.
Among the treasures found within the special collections of the DeWitt Clinton Ramsey Room, a branch of the Smithsonian Libraries located at the National Air and Space Museum, is a collection of oversized scrapbooks with an interesting and complicated history. Originally bound in one volume, William Upcott’s Scrapbook of Early Aeronautica captures the history of lighter-than-air aircraft and aeronautics from 1783 to the 1840s through a rich collection of newspaper clippings, articles, illustrations, and letters.
As a source for researchers, the scrapbooks have proven invaluable due to the quantity and quality of the primary resources Upcott accumulated. For example, the first portion of the scrapbook contains articles, clippings, and illustrations relating to the Montgolfier brothers’ first successful public demonstration of using hot air balloons. The scrapbooks go on to chronicle other events in the early history of hot air balloons, along with experiments involving the use of parachutes.
By modern-day standards, Upcott would be considered a hoarder—a quality he inherited from his father, Ozias Humphrey, along with Humphrey’s collection of illustrations, correspondence, and miniatures. Beyond his interest in collecting, Upcott worked as a bookdealer and, later, a librarian. These two careers provided Upcott with the experience and skills to further increase the size of his collection and develop a means for organizing its contents. One of the fruits of his labors was a 455-page, folio-sized scrapbook focusing on ballooning and early aeronautics.
After Upcott’s death, Sotheby’s auctioned his collection in 1846. The single-volume scrapbook would disappear from the public eye until it was donated to the Smithsonian in the late 1950s. Before officially entering the Smithsonian’s collection it was delivered to the Government Printing Office where the book was broken down and rebound into three smaller volumes.
Decades later, curatorial staff at the Museum noticed possible conservation issues with the scrapbooks and alerted the Smithsonian Libraries and its Book Conservation Laboratory. In addition to rebinding the pages of Upcott’s scrapbooks in sturdier material and acid-free paper, the conservation team also recommended that the scrapbooks be digitized to boost access to the information it contained and protect the original copies from heavy use. The digitized copies can be found in the Smithsonian Libraries’ Digital Library. Complete transcriptions for the scrapbooks can be found online here.
For more information on the history of the scrapbooks and the conservation process, please see the article, Aloft in a Balloon by Janice Stagnitto Ellis.
Sharad J. Shah is a library technician at Smithsonian Libraries.
During the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo missions, one of NASA’s concerns was the safety of its crews, something it monitored rigorously through the use of biomedical instrumentation. As initial flight planning commenced in 1959, biomedical equipment capable of transmitting from space did not exist. NASA quickly brought together medical staff and hardware engineers to develop biomedical technology. As they blasted off from Earth, the first American astronauts were wearing electrodes to collect electrocardiograms (ECGs, measuring the classic heartbeat waveform); a heated thermistor that detected breathing by cooling due to air movement in and out of the mouth; and, most unfortunately for them, a rectal probe that captured highly accurate body temperature readings. No wonder that astronauts, accustomed to self-sufficiency and relative isolation during their test pilot days, chafed at this literal and metaphorical intrusion.
Throughout the 1960s, NASA continued to tinker with its bioinstrumentation to find an ideal balance between obtaining accurate, important information and astronaut comfort. The assembly in the picture below is one of their early test models for the Apollo program. This object was featured in an earlier blog post on conservation, which you can find here. This time, I’d like to explore the function of these components.
The most interesting variable to NASA’s medical division was cardiovascular function. Did the heart’s ventricles, normally ready to pump blood to the body every second, have trouble filling with blood in the weightlessness of space? Did fluids reach the lower extremities sufficiently without gravity? What about adaptations to space—werethey detrimental to an astronaut upon his return to Earth?
ECG electrodes were the first tool to gauge heart health. Readings from Mercury flights were often thwarted by movement, vibrations, and bumps. For Apollo, NASA contracted Spacelabs, Inc. to develop more reliable and accurate readings by use of a signal conditioner. Electrodes transmitted their raw signal via the orange wires to the two black conditioners on the left in this picture, which consisted of complex circuitry to identify and reject unwanted noise so the output was more representative of the astronaut’s state of being.
In addition to heart rhythm, NASA wanted to measure blood pressure. They initially introduced a semiautomatic sphygmomanometer (blood pressure cuff with pressure transducer and microphone) during Mercury and, for the most part, it remained similar for the Gemini and Apollo missions. The pressure cuff would slowly deflate, and the microphone would record pulse sounds to pinpoint the systolic (during heartbeats) and diastolic (in between heartbeats) blood pressures. This information was transferred to a signal conditioner, shown in the picture and diagram below. For this signal conditioner, NASA’s contractors designed a tiny pressure transducer (converting pressure to voltage), built a filter to precisely pick up noise at the systolic and diastolic blood pressures, and managed to make the entire signal conditioner small, lightweight, and low on power usage.
Beyond the heart, NASA wanted to keep tabs on astronaut breathing. Because the thermistor of Mercury days (a resistor that changed its resistance at different temperatures) did not reliably track respiration, NASA moved to an impedance pneumograph technique. At the time, impedance pneumography was a little known technique, yet through NASA’s research and development it was eventually found to be a very successful tool, even in a demanding flight environment. When a constant electric current is introduced into a human’s chest tissues, the fat, muscle, lungs, air, and fluid all create a natural impedance (or opposition to current flow), which can be measured via voltage. As the subject draws in air and stretches the body tissues, the impedance changes which subsequently changes the voltage drop. NASA stuck an electrode close to the astronauts’ sixth ribs (the optimal spot) and used results from a Baylor University study to correlate impedance to the amount of air in lungs. Spacelabs, Inc. built another signal conditioner for the impedance sensor shown below. The end result was so good that flight surgeons in Houston watched every deep breath as astronauts hopped onto the surface of the Moon or headed out the hatch for a deep space extravehicular activity or EVA.
Finally, NASA came to understand that temperature monitoring via the rectum was not optimal for astronauts on long journeys to the Moon and back. They replaced it with an oral sensor for the Gemini and Apollo flights shown below, built with a Velcro patch for attachment inside the astronaut’s helmet. The black neoprene sleeve on the probe was simply for traction, as the probe itself, coated in Teflon, proved to be slippery and difficult to hold in the mouth. Intermittently, astronauts would place the sensor beneath their tongue for up to five minutes to produce a reading.
While far more complex biomedical information has been collected on astronauts since the 1960s, the instruments seen here were the pioneering designs, compiling information about the influence of weightlessness on essential bodily functions. The astronauts themselves may have been irritated with NASA’s meticulous cataloging of their body’s performance, but it came in handy in many instances, like when Gene Cernan physically struggled to perform his EVA tasks during Gemini IX-A, and when Dave Scott and Jim Irwin had heart irregularities on the surface of the Moon during Apollo 15. Biomedical monitoring allowed NASA to identify problems in real time and devise solutions for current and future astronauts, and today we continue to probe human health in space so that one day we might prepare for the challenges of sending astronauts to Mars and other celestial targets.
John Miller is a biomedical artifacts intern in the Space History department at the National Air and Space Museum. He is working towards his M.S. degree in Biomedical Engineering at the University of Virginia.
Half a century ago, in February and June 1966, robotic spacecraft first landed on the Moon. I vividly remember those events from my days as a 14-year-old space buff. On February 3, the Soviet Union’s Luna 9 thumped down on the vast lava plain known as Oceanus Procellarum (Ocean of Storms), after a number of failed attempts. A Soviet stamp shows its landing configuration, which used air bags to cushion its fall. On the right is the first picture transmitted, from the turret camera in the cylinder on top.
This image was intercepted by the Jodrell Bank observatory in England, which beat the Soviets to releasing it. The quality in this version was less than ideal, but it was the one that made the newspapers like my hometown Calgary Herald.
Luna 9, which was only powered by batteries, lasted three days, enough to transmit a panorama from very close to the surface
The United States’ first successful landing on the Moon came on June 2, when NASA’s Surveyor 1 touched down on another part of Oceanus Procellarum, which is the large dark area on the right side of the full Moon. That landing, I remember especially well, as it was carried live on TV from the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, California. It unfolded around midnight, Calgary time, and no one knew whether it would work or not. One of the first pictures Surveyor 1 took was of its foot pad.
This image, along with data transmitted from strain gauges in the three landing legs, gave valuable information to NASA about the bearing strength of the lunar surface, vital for planning the Apollo missions that were to follow.
Surveyor was a more sophisticated, solar-powered spacecraft. The Museum has a test vehicle made to look like the second successful lander, Surveyor 3. The solar panel is on top and the flat panel for the main antenna to transmit to Earth is behind it. The TV camera is located in the white cylinder with the oval mirror under the solar panel. The Surveyor 3 had a scoop (lower right) for testing the soil’s characteristics, but it was not on Surveyor 1.
Surveyor 1 shut down during the 14-day lunar night but revived and transmitted pictures until July 14. Even after that it was able to send back engineering data during lunar days until January 1967. Its panoramas have been processed more recently by Philip J. Stooke of the University of Western Ontario.
Those were exciting days for space enthusiasts and for the general public. We were witnessing the first pictures taken from the surface of another world. That same summer, spacecraft also went into orbit around the Moon for the first time. Luna 10 and Lunar Orbiter 1 transmitted many more images, as did their successors. Three years later, humans walked on the Moon, helped in no small part by their robotic precursors.
Michael J. Neufeld is a senior curator in the Space History Department of the National Air and Space Museum. He is the lead curator for Destination Moon, a new exhibition on lunar exploration that is scheduled to open in late 2020.
In a recent blog post, Kathleen Hanser told the story of the “Shrine of the Air” in Berkeley, California, and highlighted various artifacts from “Mother” Tusch’s house that became a part of our collections. The paper documents from Tusch’s house can be found in the National Air and Space Museum Archives as part of the Mary E. “Mother” Tusch Collection (Acc. No. XXXX-0128).
Famous and not so famous visitors to Tusch’s bungalow usually signed her register. One page from March and April 1946 bears the signatures of General Henry H. “Hap” Arnold; Frank T. Coffyn, early aviator and student of the Wright brothers; Robert G. Sproul, president of the University of California; and E.C. Koerper, a captain in the Air Reserve, who visited with Sproul. The registers were highly valued. One year, the register was stolen on August 9, but had been returned on September 30, a theft worthy of local newspaper coverage.
A unique item in the Mother Tusch Collection is her birthday book. The book itself was given to Tusch by Sergeant Hugh J. Williams in 1918. Williams was a member of the medical department who completed the School of Military Aeronautics on August 5, 1918. For years, Tusch recorded the birthdays of the men (and women) who visited her.
The very first entry in the book on January 1st is “Father Time – A plodder but he gets there.” George Washington is featured on February 22, “The Father of His Country,” and Tusch’s daughters Dorothy Belle, “Fairy of the Household,” and Irene can be found on March 18 and July 10, respectively. Although every person in the book has his or her own background story, sometimes Tusch herself provided a little history on the names. For example, on November 27, next to John W. Benton, Tusch noted: “Killed in Goodwill trip to South America.”
First Lt. John W. Benton was a pilot in the United States Army Air Corps. In 1926, the Army Air Corps and State Department planned a Pan-American goodwill mission to Mexico, Central and South America, and the West Indies. The goal was to showcase American-made aircraft and engines and highlight air travel as a possibility in regions that did not have many transportation options. Five Loening OA-1A amphibian aircraft were chosen for the trip and named the New York, the San Antonio, the San Francisco, the Detroit, and the St. Louis.
On February 29, 1927, the New York and Detroit collided in mid-air as they were landing at the Argentine Air Service Field at Palomar, Buenos Aires, Argentina. The crash destroyed both aircraft and killed the crew of the Detroit, pilot Capt. C.F. Woolsey and Benton. Both men were awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross posthumously.
The other aircraft completed the flight and returned to Bolling Field, Washington, DC, where they were congratulated by President Calvin Coolidge. The Loening OA-1A San Francisco is on display at the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center in Chantilly, Virginia.
John W. Benton is just one of many possible stories that can be told from Mother Tusch’s birthday book. She even had a special story celebrating her birthday, December 26: “Mother Tusch—(the best Xmas present of them all).”