Webb’s detailed detection of the plume revealed that the water vapor was releasing from Enceladus at about 79 gallons (299 liters) per second - enough to fill an Olympic-size swimming pool in a couple of hours, which would take more than two weeks on Earth using a garden hose, according to the release. Although the global ocean exists beneath an ice shell, the moon’s rocky core may warm the ocean enough to make it habitable for life, if it exists there. But it’s one of several intriguing ocean worlds in our solar system where scientists think they have the best chance of finding life beyond Earth. “The water plume extends far beyond its release region at the southern pole.”Įnceladus is a tiny moon, only about 4% the size of Earth and measuring 313 miles (503.7 kilometers) across. It was just so shocking to detect a water plume more than 20 times the size of the moon,” said lead study author Geronimo Villanueva, a planetary scientist at NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt, Maryland, in a statement. “When I was looking at the data, at first, I was thinking I had to be wrong. The inset image, taken by the Cassini orbiter, shows how small Enceladus appears compared with the water plume.
Read more at and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.The James Webb Space Telescope captured a a water vapor plume jetting from the south pole of Enceladus. It may not have changed Francis’ driving, but at least I would’ve known to always bring along ginger ale and crackers. “Geez, Dad! What’s up with the gas-brake driving!” I only wish I’d seen the warning signs earlier in our marriage. Our three adult children no longer mince words. On any given road trip, Francis’ passenger may be thrown forward and backward multiple times, causing her stomach to twist and her neck bones to heave like an old-fashioned squeeze accordion. Rather than easing his foot off the brake, Francis jerks his foot upward, causing an equally violent reaction when the passenger’s torso is thrown backward against the seat and her head ricochets against the headrest. The sudden deceleration pins the passenger’s torso against the seatbelt, while catapulting her head forward, snapping it like a whip. Then, BAM! He hits the brake with a quick punch. I noticed his repeating pattern: Francis guns the gas until the vehicle he is driving is a few car lengths away from a stop sign or obstacle.
Over the course of the next three years of touring Europe in our minivan, our family became so accustomed to the kids vomiting during car trips, the minivan was supplied with “barf bags,” “up-chuck buckets” and wet wipes for that inevitable purpose.īy the time we left Europe, our children had vomited in over a dozen foreign countries, and I began wonder, “Does Francis drive like his father?” Within days of PCSing, our middle child threw up during a sightseeing drive. Years later, while stationed in Germany with our three kids, I ignored yet another warning sign. I blamed my second pregnancy, even though my symptoms generally appeared when Francis was driving. Mysteriously, I’d developed neck pains and nausea. I ignored another red flag during the years we were stationed in the English countryside, when my husband, Francis, drove our growing family around on the winding roads and roundabouts. I was so relieved when we finally reached the beach, I couldn’t see the trip for what it really was - a warning sign for my life to come. I sat between those rear speakers, covering the baby’s ears and fighting my gag reflex.
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When he couldn’t figure out how to get sound through the front speakers, he turned the rear volume up full blast. To make matters worse, my father-in-law searched AM radio stations for a traffic report. I, on the other hand, was burping up bile. Mercifully, my son was asleep, oblivious to his grandfather’s jerky driving. In the vastness of the Lincoln, motions were magnified, and I was soon queasy. He was a nervous driver, alternating between jabbing the brake and gunning the gas. “Geez, Midge!” my father-in-law bellowed using her nickname, indicating that she’d better not bother him while he was negotiating traffic. Gaetano ignored his wife, so she asked, “How ‘bout some crackers?” She pulled a sleeve of crumbling Ritz from the enormous handbag at her feet, which also contained a two-liter bottle of ginger ale, plastic cups, and a few pieces of bruised fruit. Millie’s late husband, Uncle Eddie, had set this up for her, “God bless him.”
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