Happy (Belated) Birthday, Freddy!

Roy and Amrys in 20th century garb

The two stars of the evening. (Photo by Avi Stein)

Like many other curious spectators last Saturday night (6 February 2016, exactly a week ago today), I walked up the icy path to the Van Vleck Observatory at a couple minutes past 7pm, and I almost couldn’t get my foot in the door there were so many people. Squeaking open the door cautiously so as not to push anybody into the mounted Fisk Telescope that stands just a couple feet from the doorway (I mean I didn’t want to push anybody anyway…), and with a few “excuse-me’s” and “I’m-sorry-thank-you’s” later, I was in. And then, I saw two long sheets of brightly-decorated birthday-cake.

Frederick Slocum's birthday cake

One of the two birthday cakes, soon-to-be-consumed in Frederick Slocum’s honor. (Photo by the author).

But that’s just the beginning of the story. We were all there to celebrate the birthday of the first director of the Van Vleck Observatory (Frederick Slocum), eat birthday cake, and attend a circa-1916 astronomy lecture delivered by Roy with assistance of Amrys at the projector. In period costume. With authentic lantern slides. Luckily the cake didn’t also come from the year 1916.

Authentic lantern slides

Lantern slides used in the presentation. Note the date in the bottom-most slide: 1915! (Photo by Josephine Ho)

The event was so popular, that Roy and Amrys had to give the presentation twice! While the first take was going on in the Van Vleck classroom, the remaining crowd was left to observe the Pleiades star cluster with the newly-restored 20’’ telescope thanks to the help of the Astronomical Society of Greater Hartford, schmooze in the lobby, and eyeball the cake eagerly and a bit impatiently. Most of our team was in attendance, fielding questions about why we were all there anyway that night. One student asked, “How many planets were there in 1916?” “Well…all of the planets were already there (haha)…but I think Pluto had just been discovered!” Roy later stated that it hadn’t been yet.

Roy and Amrys after the first lecture

Roy and Amrys make it out of the first lecture alive! (Photo by Josephine Ho)

In any case, when the first talk was over, Roy, Amrys, and a wave of people poured out of the classroom, elated and a bit red-faced. I bumped into my Italian professor and asked her thoughts; her response: “fantastico.” Amrys started the crowds singing “Happy Birthday” and a friend nearby commented afterward, “That was the most in-tune ‘happy birthday’ I’ve ever heard and especially from such a large group of people!” The cake was cut and handed-out (finally). 

Amrys introducing the lecture

Amrys introduces the Under CT Skies project, the lecture, and Roy. (Photo by Josephine Ho)

At last, it was the second group’s turn. I found myself, and the other team members originally-tasked with crowd-control, in this section. Amrys began with a few words about the Under Connecticut Skies project and then invited us to close our eyes. The lights went off as she explained the major events, the new cars, and new technology of the time, and how the Great War had delayed the arrival of the 20’’ lens. She gave the floor to Roy. 

Parallax explanation

We found this delightful drawing on the back of a visitor survey filled out by an attendee of the evening. (Photo by the author)

Roy explained a bit about the observatory’s “recent” building, dedication, and ultimate purpose: “instruction and research” as Slocum had outlined in his inaugural address. “May I please have the next slide.” (Amrys changed the lantern slides right on cue every time) Roy moved on to explain how parallax measurement works, asking everyone to hold up their thumb an arm’s length away. You can calculate how far away your thumb is from your face by measuring the distance between your eyes and using simple trigonometry to find the angle at the end.This is the same concept as observing a star from two different points on the earth’s surface, and finding its distance. I’ve heard parallax described many-a-times, and I still don’t completely understand it. 

IMG_3032

Roy discusses the proposed element “Nebulium” during the lecture. (Photo by the author)

“May I please have the next slide.” Roy continued on talking about the “latest” advancements in astronomical research. Scientists were still puzzled by the element “Nebulium,” discovered earlier in the late 19th century. Analyzing spectroscopic lines, astronomers had named the element after the nebulae from which they believed it originated. One astronomy student whispered to another, “What’s Nebulium? I’ve never heard of it before.” A shrug of the shoulders, and: “Me neither.”

After several more “May-I-have-the-next-slide-please’s,” the talk was over, the lights came on, and Roy and Amrys broke out of character. A Q&A session began. Roy explained that Nebulium turned out to be doubly-ionized oxygen, which is why we don’t see the element on any periodic table. 

Amrys and students look at old projector together

Amrys shows off the authentic lantern slide projector to a couple of students who attended the lecture. (Photo by the author)

And finally after the Q&A session, while chatting with the students who were smart enough to know that Nebulium was never a real thing, Roy admitted that he tried to lay off telling so many astronomy jokes so as not to alienate the diverse crowd but left a few in anyway for the astronomers.

And so, by the end of the night, I felt it was safe to say that Frederick Slocum had one of the greatest birthday parties ever.

For more press coverage on this event, check out this article in the Wesleyan Argus or Roy’s very own post on the Van Vleck Observatory blog. 

 

Slocum’s Birthday Party

SlocumBirthdayPartyPoster

Want to party in the Van Vleck Observatory? Want to see Roy and Amrys dress up as early 20th century astronomers? We are honoring the 143rd birthday of Frederick Slocum, Van Vleck’s first director, this Saturday, February 6th, at 7 p.m..

Along with snacks and refreshments, Research Associate Professor of Astronomy Roy Kilgard will be recreating a 1916-­era public astronomy lecture in period attire using original lantern slides and projector from the observatory’s collections. A Q&A session will follow the lecture, and if the conditions permit, the 20” refracting telescope will be open for observing. Come learn all about cutting edge astronomy as it would have been described a century ago, followed by observing through our restored 100-year-old telescope!

The event will be held at 7pm this Saturday, February 6th at the Van Vleck Observatory, and is free and open to the public. For directions, visit http://www.wesleyan.edu/astro/van-vleck/Directions.html

This event is co-sponsored by our friends at the Astronomical Society of Greater Hartford, and is a part of a yearlong celebration of the Van Vleck Observatory Centennial that will culminate in the opening of an exhibition in May and a daylong symposium in June.  

Teaching stellar parallax through the years

How far away are the the stars?  Answering this question constituted the major research effort of the Van Vleck Observatory for the bulk of the twentieth century. Using a technique called stellar parallax, the astronomers, plate measurers, and computers who worked at Van Vleck observed the heavens, made careful measurements, and performed calculations to determine the distances to stars.  While students were not actively involved in this process until the mid-twentieth century, the stellar parallax program was integral to astronomical instruction at Wesleyan, as we can see from the many pedagogical aids in our collection that relate to this technique.

What is stellar parallax?

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The annals of frustration and repair

As the shelves and file cabinets at the Van Vleck Observatory attest, keeping accurate records has been crucial to the work astronomers, measurers, and computers have performed here over the past century. Faculty, staff, and students used logbooks to keep track of the stellar objects they observed, the photographic images they took of the sky, the measurements they made using those images, and the instruments they relied on to perform those measurements and calculations. These logbooks are a record of the process of making astronomical data, as well as the many different kinds of work that went into it.

On the left, we can see the exact measurements, times, and information put into a single observation. Here, the observer does not make to many individual notes, but does state, however, that the machine, the Mann, is being temperamental. Astronomy Department collections, Van Vleck Observatory. Photo by the author.

On the left, we can see the exact measurements, times, and information put into a single observation. Here, the observer does not make to many individual notes, but does state, however, that the machine, the Mann, is being temperamental. Astronomy Department collections, Van Vleck Observatory. Photo by the author.

In the margins, the logbooks also tell a story of ongoing maintenance and repair that underscores that labor. Many observers and measurers commented on issues with the instruments they were using: a stiff wind that shook the tube of the telescope, resulting in a blurry image; chronometers that were not keeping accurate time; malfunctioning electronics and equipment that stymied their attempts to record accurate data. These problems functioned as maintenance requests as well as repair logs, as observers informed one another about the problems they were having and the steps they took to address them.

The observer blames himself for the inaccurate measurements obtained, but then states later on that the digitizer is not working. Astronomy Department collections, Van Vleck OBservatory. Photo by the author.

The observer blames himself for the inaccurate measurements obtained, but then states later on that the digitizer is not working. Astronomy Department collections, Van Vleck OBservatory. Photo by the author.

Observatory staff also used the logbooks to joke around about the travails of their often tedious work.  They documented the frustrating and the funny, the technical and the personal.  In the logbooks for the Mann comparator, which allowed staff to make highly accurate determinations of distance, some plate measurers complain about the key-punch device “mis-punching” the computer cards that recorded the data, asking their colleagues to “pray for them and their failing measurements.”  Between April 1972 and December 1980, the device was repaired almost daily. We can see how irritating this was for those tasked with doing the grunt work of astronomy in the comments they left for one another as they went about their tasks.

Observers informed one another about the problems they were having, and even asked for "HELP"; based of off the different scripts, we can deduce the problems that each observer encounters with the machinery. Astronomy Department collections, Van Vleck Observatory. Photo by the author.

Observers informed one another about the problems they were having, and even asked for “HELP”; based of off the different scripts, we can deduce the problems that each observer encounters with the machinery. Astronomy Department collections, Van Vleck Observatory. Photo by the author.

How the Van Vleck Observatory reflects environmental conditions

Before Van Vleck was completed in 1916, Wesleyan’s “observatory” was a tower mounted on a dormitory, containing few instruments with little research capability. Prior to that, the university’s effort at a building devoted to astronomy was little more than a shed.

Professor John Monroe Van Vleck, who taught astronomy at Wesleyan for 50 years, believed the university could do better. He envisioned an observatory with the facilities necessary to make an impact on the world’s understanding of the universe. In 1903, Van Vleck’s family donated more than $25,000 to the university for a new observatory and planning began, but Professor Van Vleck passed away before he could see his vision come to life.

In his stead, Wesleyan’s president Stephen H. Olin entrusted Frederick Slocum, the new astronomy professor, with supervising the observatory’s design. Slocum began a detailed correspondence with Henry Bacon, the architect charged with designing the observatory, to recommend the location, design, and technology of the building. Slocum was as determined as Van Vleck had been to see the Wesleyan observatory contribute valuable research to the scientific community. He was aware that it would not be easy, as New England’s cold, wet, and changeable climate was not ideal for astronomical observation. Slocum used a number of means—geographical, architectural, and technological—to overcome the challenges of doing astronomy in the relatively poor observational environment of New England.

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Letters from an old friend

My favorite part of putting together a history exhibit is getting to look through other people’s things. Certainly Frederick Slocum will not walk in on me as I’m hunched over his letters, and yet, I still feel like I’m intruding. But I’m not going to stop poking around, so let’s intrude together.

Slocum’s correspondence shows that he frequently allowed elementary school classes and intrigued guests into his observatory. He would let them look through the telescope, teach them about the moon and visible planets, and maybe leave them with some pictures of the stars. Classroom teachers in particular reached out to him from far and wide, from Flint, Michigan to Middletown itself. Though Slocum mostly published his work in academic journals, he clearly had an interest in making astronomy accessible to those outside of academia as well.

Amidst all of the letters to Slocum in our collection, one from a fifth grade class in Franklin, North Carolina stood out to me. The letter, dated October 31, 1934, is written in perfect grade-school cursive.

My Dear Prof. Slocum, We have been studying about the moon and wish to learn more about it. We don’t want to take your valuable time or inconvenience you, but if you have one new interesting thing that you can tell us about this heavenly body we will appreciate it very much. Just disregard this letter entirely if it seems impertinent. Yours sincerely, The Fifth Grade. Fifth grade students of Franklin, NC to Frederick W. Slocum, 31 October 1932. Frederick W. Slocum correspondence files, Van Vleck Observatory collections, Wesleyan University.

My Dear Prof. Slocum, We have been studying about the moon and wish to learn more about it. We don’t want to take your valuable time or inconvenience you, but if you have one new interesting thing that you can tell us about this heavenly body we will appreciate it very much. Just disregard this letter entirely if it seems impertinent. Yours sincerely, The Fifth Grade. Fifth grade students of Franklin, NC to Frederick W. Slocum, 31 October 1932. Frederick W. Slocum correspondence files, Van Vleck Observatory collections, Wesleyan University.

If the adorableness of their letter doesn’t hook you in enough, maybe this will: this fifth grade class’s teacher was Mrs. S. Edward Eaton, née Olive Eddy, who was Slocum’s own student in 1905 at Pembroke Hall. Enclosed with the students’ letter was her own, asking if the professor remembered her, and then immediately answering her own question with: “Of course you don’t.”

Mrs. Eaton was wrong. A mere two weeks later, Slocum responded, “I certainly do remember Olive Eddy and I am delighted to hear from her.” Enclosed with this letter to Mrs. Eaton was an extensive reply to her fifth graders’ queries. He included more than one interesting thing: he wrote about when the next eclipses were (down to the exact hour); what exactly to look at in the sky in order to see them; and also gave them a few photographs of the moon, Venus, the Van Vleck Observatory, and the observatory’s telescope.

He concluded,

I cannot easily tell you much about the moon at this distance, but if you can induce Mrs. Eaton to sew some wings on your shoulders so you can all fly up here, I will show you the moon through the telescope, and tell you all I know about it while are you looking.

Slocum’s writing and research proved that he knew how to address crowds steeped in academia, but this letter shows that he also knew how to appeal to children’s whimsy and blossoming interest in science.

Stellar parallax or Cold War espionage?

At the dedication of Van Vleck Observatory on June 16, 1916, the observatory’s first director, Frederick Slocum, outlined an agenda for the new institution: determining the distances of stars. This stellar parallax program constituted the observatory’s main research effort for the majority of the twentieth century.

The parallax program involved researchers as well as many human “computers” who were aided by tools, such as the Millionare mechanical calculator, to perform the necessary calculations. Advances in technology allowed for more accurate measurements and faster computations, changing the kinds of work people did. The Mann comparator, which the Astronomy Department purchased in the late 1950s, was one of the observatory’s most important acquisitions in this regard.

A photo of the Mann Machine

The Mann Measuring Machine. Photo by the Author. Van Vleck Observatory collections, Wesleyan University.

The Mann was an important aid to the people tasked with measuring the distances between the different stars recorded on glass plate images of the sky. The stellar parallax program’s results were contingent on both how the plates were recorded and how they were interpreted, so accurate measurements were crucial for exact results. Previously, plate measurers had worked solely relying on their eyes to gauge the minute distances that would be used in their calculations. With the Mann, the measurers could insert each plate and look into a viewfinder, using a mechanical crank to move the plate very slowly by degrees in order to pinpoint the exact locations of the stars and make measurements between them.  It was still tedious work that required a practiced eye, but the comparator made accuracy easier to achieve.

When you take a closer look at our Mann comparator, you can see that there are two small name plates attached to it. One, close to the crank, indicates the manufacturer and serial number of the device. The other, larger plate is affixed to the base and reads, “PROPERTY OF U.S.A.F – 866477 – DO NOT REMOVE THIS TAG.” What do these two tags tell us?

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Why Science 1–2 mattered

The late 1950s and early 1960s were a pivotal time for Wesleyan’s liberal arts curriculum. It was during these years that the school began to experiment with the college system, the interdisciplinary three-year majors like the College of Social Studies and the College of Letters. In keeping with this interdisciplinary approach, the university began to loosen its distribution requirements and provide more classes geared towards non-majors. One of the resulting courses, Science 1–2, illuminates the Astronomy Department’s role in furthering Wesleyan’s liberal arts mission.

In the decades following World War II, there was a general feeling among the science faculty that Wesleyan’s traditional science requirement for undergraduates—one year of an introductory level course with a lab—was unsatisfactory. As Astronomy Professor Thornton Page put it in the 1960 Wesleyan University Alumnus, the science requirement at Wesleyan had been the “bane of many a non-scientist’s undergraduate years,” and that the necessary courses were “as inappropriate for the non-science major as a cookbook for a would-be gourmet, or a lecture on grammar for a theatre audience.” Page explained that non-science majors would benefit from a more general understanding of the fundamentals of science, how the sciences relate to each other, and the contemporary research being done in those fields, rather than taking separate introductory courses in individual subjects. By spreading the course across the entire academic year (hence the 1–2 designation), students would receive a more comprehensive introduction to the fundamentals of science across disciplines.  A similar course, Humanities 1–2, offered a complementary approach geared towards science students.

First taught in the fall of 1959, Science 1–2’s primary goal was to teach humanities and social science majors the fundamentals of a broad range of scientific disciplines through lectures, labs, and independent projects. The course was divided into three broad topics: Space and Motion, Matter and Energy, and Life and Time. Multiple professors from biology, physics, astronomy, mathematics and chemistry lectured during each section. After each topic there was a two-week reading period during which students developed their own personal project in conjunction with a faculty advisor. The projects culminated in a final paper, the best of which were then chosen at the end of the year by a committee of peers to be published and distributed around campus in a scientific version of a college literary magazine. This structure gave students a broader overview of the field of science than a typical first year introductory course would, while still emphasizing laboratory research and asking students to hone their quantitative and analytical skills.

Science 1–2 essay collections from the 1960s. Astronomy Department collections, Van Vleck Observatory.

Science 1–2 essay collections from the 1960s. Astronomy Department collections, Van Vleck Observatory.

The astronomy department played an important role in Science 1–2. Thornton Page himself was one of its main designers and promoters. His research interests in extraterrestrial life were taken up eagerly by his students. Every pamphlet listed an essay on flying saucers as an honorable mention, and one even printed such an essay. His enigmatic personality, too, must have resonated with students. One essay explored the logic behind Zeno’s paradoxes through a Socratic dialogue in which the figure of Socrates was named Thornton.

An excerpt from the essay about Zeno’s Paradox. This student has named his Socrates figure Thornton. Three Sides of the Coin, May, 1961. Astronomy Department Collections, Van Vleck Observatory.

An excerpt from the essay about Zeno’s Paradox. This student has named his Socrates figure Thornton. Three Sides of the Coin, May, 1961. Astronomy Department Collections, Van Vleck Observatory.

The essays about aliens and Zeno’s paradox also illustrate the freedom that the students had in deciding their final essay topic. The essays in the pamphlets are an eclectic mix, ranging in style from formal laboratory write-ups to a summary of current knowledge about a subject. Several themes, such as continental drift and Zeno’s paradox, do crop up multiple times, but every student’s take on the matter is different. In addition, the fact that multiple essays over different years discuss similar subject matter highlight that at least the core components of the curriculum stayed the same from year to year. The broad range of topics, however, illustrate that emphasis was continually placed on introducing students to multiple disciplines and cultivating the interdisciplinary approach to subjects that a liberal arts education can provide.

While not a specific academic area of the class, the influence of the Cold War and the Space Race can be seen in many of the essays, reflecting the how those politics permeated even small liberal arts universities at the time. One student discussed the necessity of Civil Defense in relation to the “dreadful possibility of nuclear war erupting…at any time.” The student used the science behind nuclear fallout and his understanding of motion and mechanics to determine whether the United States could survive a nuclear attack. Another essay discussed the possible existence of life on other planets. The author summarized the contemporary understanding of Mars and Venus’ atmosphere and surface features, highlighting the surprising amount that astronomers knew at the time. However, he also discussed some of the more comical theories of the day, such as assuming that vegetation on Mars will be found once NASA sends its first robotic laboratory to the planet. All of this research was fueled by the United States’ competition with the Soviet Union.

Not every essay was as eccentric as the ones discussed above. Here is an excerpt from a laboratory report about the movement of oil and water through rock. The report is thorough and the drawings are incredibly detailed. Motion, Method, Motivation January, 1961. Astronomy Department Collections, Van Vleck Observatory.

Not every essay was as eccentric as the ones discussed above. Here is an excerpt from a laboratory report about the movement of oil and water through rock. The report is thorough and the drawings are incredibly detailed. Motion, Method, Motivation January, 1961. Astronomy Department Collections, Van Vleck Observatory.

The course, it seems,lasted just under a decade, disappearing from the Wesleyan course catalogues by 1967. Instead, to fulfill their science requirement, students only had the option to take a “year’s course involving laboratory work.” This change may reflect a reaction to the protests and unrest that permeated college campuses at that time. However, the interdisciplinary goal of Wesleyan and the Astronomy department was not eradicated. Today, the department offers many classes for non-majors at all levels, including a freshman seminar that explores the relationship between science fiction and science fact, and the origins of that initiative can be traced back to interdisciplinary classes such as Science 1–2. These essays highlight that a broad understanding of multiple disciplines constructively influences writing and research.

Words of thanks

As the fall semester quickly approaches its conclusion, we at the Under Connecticut Skies project have much to be thankful for.  The support of Wesleyan University, Connecticut Humanities, and, as of this week, the NASA Connecticut Space Grant College Consortium, which has just awarded us a Faculty STEM Eduction Programming Grant to help make our exhibition a reality next spring. The students, faculty, staff, alumni, and amateur astronomers who have contributed to our oral history project.  The folks at WESU 88.1 FM, who have generously been helping us record some of our oral histories.  The reporters and journalists who have covered our work.  Staff at the New Haven Museum, Middlesex County Historical Society, Connecticut Historical Society, and Connecticut River Museum, who have shared ideas and techniques with us.  And, most of all, our dedicated team of faculty, staff, students, and community partners who have made this project possible.

Happy Thanksgiving.

An astronomer leaves for war

On April 6, 1917, less than three years after he had begun teaching at Wesleyan University, Frederick Slocum, the first Director of the Van Vleck Observatory, was looking to see how he could help his country. That day, the United States Congress had issued a declaration of war against Germany and its allies, brining the nation into World War I. Four days later, Slocum wrote to the Secretary of the Navy “to see if I can be of service to the Navy Department.”

Frederick Slocum, First Director of the Van Vleck Observatory, to the Secratary of the Navy, seeking a job teaching naval navigation, April 10, 1917. Frederick Slocum correspondence files, Van Vleck Observatory.

Frederick Slocum, First Director of the Van Vleck Observatory, to the Secratary of the Navy, seeking a job teaching naval navigation, April 10, 1917. Frederick Slocum correspondence files, Van Vleck Observatory.

The conflict in Europe had been looming over the Astronomy Department and the Observatory since the two were created. Slocum had begun teaching at Wesleyan in 1914, less than two months after the beginning of the war. And plans to build an 18.5-inch refracting telescope were derailed in 1916, because the lens manufacturer was French and could not make, much less ship, the lens until the war was over.

But with American entry into the war, the entire University—not just the Astronomy Department—was altered. In 1917, President William Shanklin, according to the Wesleyan University Bulletin, appointed Lieutenant Arthur James Hanlon as Professor of Military Science and Tactics. In this position, Hanlon taught student volunteers in a military training course.

Soon, almost every student was participating in Hanlon’s class. The students received credit for taking the course, despite the fact that it consisted mostly of physical exercises; there was virtually no academic content in what Hanlon taught. Furthermore, over the course of the war, later issues of the Bulletin reveal, the number of credits students received from the course increased. The message was clear: student life, academic and extra-curricular, was to be centered on the war effort.

Like many Americans, Slocum saw it as his patriotic duty to take an active role in mobilization for war. He aimed to use his astronomical training to teach courses in navigation. Growing up in Massachussetts, the son of a ship captain, and a sailing enthusiast, Slocum had longstanding experience with celestial navigation, using the stars to determine his position at sea. Wesleyan University did not offer such a course, so he reached out to the Navy Department and the U.S. Shipping Board to see if he could use his skills to train cadets.

Slocum’s inquiries soon bore fruit. In 1917, he took up a position with the U.S. Shipping Board, and, in 1918, he began teaching nautical science at Brown University.

Slocum teaches a course in celestial navigation at Brown University in 1914. Images of Brown, Brown Digital Repository, Brown University Library.

Slocum teaches a course in celestial navigation at Brown University in 1914. Images of Brown, Brown Digital Repository, Brown University Library.

Although he supported the war effort, President Shanklin was concerned with Slocum’s absence from campus, fearing that Wesleyan’s new star professor might not return. Slocum was central to the university’s goal in building the Van Vleck Observatory: creating a small but significant research program to advance astronomical science by determining the distances to the stars. From the time Slocum left the Wesleyan to the time he returned, this stellar parallax project was on hold.

In a 1918 letter to Slocum, Shanklin stated that Wesleyan University had hoped to see a similar course offered; however, the Navy was unwilling to fund it. Instead, he wrote, the Navy had decided that the larger university at Yale could handle all the new recruits, leaving Wesleyan without a nautical science program. Still, Shanklin told Slocum that he was trying to change the minds of Navy officers—and encouraged Slocum to return to Middletown should he succeed.

Shanklin’s concern that Slocum might not return to Wesleyan after the war, it turns out, was well-founded. In a letter sent to Frank Schlesinger, of Yale University, in December 1919, Slocum revealed that he had in fact resigned from Wesleyan after the University had refused to lend him to Brown during the war. He wrote that, even though the war had ended, “I feel that I am still enlisted in the service of the country.” On April 8, 1920, Schlesinger informed Slocum that he had written to Shanklin, without Slocum’s prior knowledge, encouraging Shanklin to bring the first Director of the Van Vleck Observatory back to the University. It was only then that Slocum returned to teach at Wesleyan.

Slocum’s temporary absence reveals how “total” a “total war” can be. Throughout academia, professors left during World War I and World War II to contribute to the war effort in any way they could. Unless a university had a program especially designed to allow professors to use their teaching skills in training military cadets, a large number of faculty members were prone to leave. They would often never return.

Decades later, during World War II, the United States government gave Wesleyan University funding for a course similar to the one Shanklin had requested during World War I. Military training courses returned to the university, but they were academic courses and included instruction in navigation. This time, Slocum stayed at Wesleyan and taught a class, through the Civil Aviation Authority, called Navigation for Sea or Air.