One night in late Autumn, 1985 I grabbed my blanket, pillow and jacket, draped a pair of binoculars over my shoulder and headed for the bed of my pickup parked outside our home in Howell, New Jersey. The daily newspaper had given the position in the sky for Halley’s Comet and I was determined, like an adventurer set out to find true north, to locate it, stare at it and uncover some deep truth about it. After several minutes of bouncing between the “finder” stars I saw a cotton ball. It just hung in the sky, kind of out of place, but was right where it was supposed to be. 

In the late 1600s, the English astronomer Edmund Halley opined that it had not been several, but rather a single comet that had appeared every 75-76 years, and that it would be back for another run past our planet in 1758. He died in 1742, but his prediction proved true and the comet was given his name. 

I looked at the sight for several minutes and then ran inside. I forced my eight-year-old daughter and four-year-old son to bundle up and join me. I got my wife to come with us, telling her we would very likely never see it come back around. I tried to explain to my kids that the next time they’d see the comet – 2061 – they would be older than their grandparents. But, how do you explain what a lifetime is to such young children? 

For me, though, it was absolutely special. In my own yard, somehow positioned through the trees, I’d seen one of the truly magnificent objects in our solar system. Many people would never get that chance.

That’s what’s possible outside our doors. There are, however, through the combined genius of astronomers, engineers, mathematicians and many others, observatories, museums and labs that exponentially expand our knowledge, understanding and appreciation for not just the night sky, but also for the imagination and determination of men and women who turn dreams into reality.

Several of those places are not very far down the road from us. The Richard F. Caris Mirror Lab on the University of Arizona campus is the place where giant mirrors are manufactured for some of the newest and biggest telescopes in the world. At the Fred Lawrence Whipple Observatory in Amado the tour begins at the visitor center at the foot of Mt. Hopkins and ends, weather permitting, at the summit where the 6.5-meter MMT awaits. Websites for each make it easy to plan a trip. 

And then, though it’s a bit more of a hike, Kitt Peak, near Sells on the Tohono O’odham Nation, is a good day trip. Quite a few years ago, I had the opportunity to go there with a group of amateur astronomers and educators. Our visit lasted into the evening and included an in-depth lecture about one of the large telescopes. That was when I fully realized that the folks who design and construct the instruments that open up the heavens to us are as spectacular as the objects those instruments enable us to see.

My earliest memories of being awed by the night sky involve my uncle. I clearly recall walking with him on a dark night on the dirt road that ran through our farm while he directed my sight upward. And, I also remember him taking me on a trip to the Hayden Planetarium in New York City. Maybe I was six or seven years old at the time. It is the pairing of those two memories that has always made so much sense to me: the majesty just outside our homes complementing the wonder inherent in the machinery and displays created by those with special gifts. Unsurprisingly, the sum is greater than those incredibly fantastic individual parts.

All of this leads to this month’s special sights. Zodiac constellations Leo, Cancer, Gemini and Taurus are visible for much of the night. You’ll have to stay up pretty late for a view of Virgo, Libra and Scorpius far to the south. All fall within the ecliptic, the path of the sun. Northeast of Taurus is Auriga, the Charioteer. It boasts three open clusters of stars. 

The best of the lot, catalogued as Messier 37, or as 2099 in the New General Catalog (NGC), is the one my wife always asks to see. Located 4600 light years away, it contains numerous bright stars with a magnificent red giant near the center. It’s like a diamond ring with a ruby for extra effect. Auriga’s alpha star, Capella, is the sixth brightest star in the sky and number three in the northern hemisphere. Only Sirius in Canis Major and Vega in Lyra are brighter. 

Editor’s note. Harold Meckler shares his love for the stars in this column. He has had an article published in “Sky and Telescope” and is the author of “Monsoon,” a novel about self-discovery. “I’ve always loved to look at the night sky,” he said.