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How can they be sure no two snowflakes are alike?

February 5, 1988

Dear Cecil:

How do they know with any degree of certainty that no two snowflakes are alike? When I took statistics I was taught that to draw a valid conclusion one had to take a representative sample of the entire population. But considering the impossibly large number of flakes in a single snowfall, let alone that have ever fallen, how could snowologists have possibly taken a sample large enough to conclude that no two are alike?

— Leslie B. Turner, San Pedro, California

Cecil replies:

They didn't, of course. Chances are, in fact, that there are lots of duplicates. What the snowologists really mean is that your chance of finding duplicates is virtually zero. It's been calculated that in a volume of snow two feet square by ten inches deep there are roughly one million flakes. Multiply that by the millions of square miles that are covered by snow each year (nearly one fourth of the earth's land surface), and then multiply that by the billions of winters that have occurred since the dawn of time, and it's obvious we're talking unimaginable googols of flakes. Some of these are surely repeats.

On the other hand, a single snow crystal contains perhaps 100 million molecules, which can be arranged in a gigajillion different ways. By contrast, the number of flakes that have ever been photographed in the history of snow research amounts to a few tens of thousands. So it seems pretty safe to say nobody's ever going to get documentary evidence of duplication. Still, it could happen, and what's more, Leslie, it could happen to you. The way I figure, anybody who could dream up a question like this has got to have a lot of time on his hands. Get out and start looking.

We encounter a little problem

Dear Cecil:

Considering some of the dope you dish out, I'd expect your mistakes to be equally spectacular, and you've certainly outdone yourself this time. The mind (mine, anyway) boggles at the magnitude of error in your recent dissertation on snowflakes in which you said that over the history of the earth there have been "unimaginable googols of flakes." A googol is one followed by 100 zeroes (10^100). My calculations show that since the earth was formed four billion years ago, the estimated number of flakes (not counting you and me and your other readers) is only about 10^28. That leaves a difference of 10^72.

Let's try to get a handle on the size of that error. The difference between the diameter of a carbon atom's nucleus and the diameter of the known universe is about 40 orders of magnitude. That still leaves about 32 orders of magnitude to sweep under the rug, or about the difference between a carbon atom and the Milky Way. To put it another way, the number of protons, neutrons and electrons in the known universe is much less than one googol. You've exceeded that by a margin of unimaginable to the unimaginable power. I knew you could do it, Cecil. Congratulations.

— Josef D. Prall, Carrollton, Texas

Cecil replies:

I knew some smartass was going to call me on this. I am well aware that the number of snowflakes falls short of a googol by a considerable margin. However, swept up in a fit of literary grandiosity — I mean, come on, how often do you get to use a word like "googol" in a sentence? — I decided to fudge it. I'm so embarrassed. Incidentally, by my calculations, the number of flakes is actually about 1030, a difference of 102 from your figure. (You goofed up the multiplication for the number of square feet in a square mile, judging from your work sheet.)

Another little problem

Dear Cecil:

I am a senior electrical engineering student at Northwestern University. Regarding the number of snowflakes that have fallen since the dawn of time, I have no problem with Josef Prall's point that there have been 10^28 to 10^30, as opposed to your estimate of a googol (10^100). However, I feel compelled to point out that the difference between the two amounts is not 10^72. Obviously neither Prall nor you learned manipulation of exponents correctly in high school. 10^3 (or 1,000) minus 10^2 (100) doesn't equal 10^1 (10), it equals 9 times 10^2, or 900. Likewise, 10^100 minus 10^28 isn't 10^72, it's 10^28(10^72 - 1) or 10^28(10^71 x 9.999 ...) or 9.999 ... x 10^99. Get it straight.

— Janet M. Kim, Evanston, Illinois

Cecil replies:

I hate senior electrical engineering students. Whatever his many other moral failings, I think it is reasonably clear from his letter that Josef Prall knows 10^100 minus 10^28 doesn't equal 10^72. He was using — certainly I was using — the expression "a difference of 10so-and-so" as a shorthand way of saying "a difference of so-and-so orders of magnitude." This may seem a bit careless, but in today's fast-paced world, every microsecond counts.

Vindication!

Some months ago, Straight Dope fiends will recall, this column struck a mighty blow for truth and freedom by attacking the belief that no two snowflakes are alike, a superstition that has blighted the lives of millions. Not having time to inspect all the world's snowflakes (besides, I lost the tweezers), Cecil relied instead on the crushing logic of mathematics, arguing that so many flakes had fallen since the dawn of time that there were bound to be a few duplicates.

Naturally, many scoffed. One peanut-brain called to say he knew for sure no two snowflakes were alike because he had heard it on Nova. There was also the unfortunate business with the googols, which we won't go into here. My defense in all cases was couched strictly in theoretical terms, since I did not expect any actual cases of twin flakes to turn up (although I must say the cast of characters in those Doublemint commercials certainly came close).

I was therefore pleasantly surprised to read in the bulletin of the American Meteorological Society that matching snow crystals were recently discovered by Nancy Knight of the National Center for Atmospheric Research. The crystals in question admittedly aren't flakes in the usual sense but rather hollow hexagonal prisms. They are also not absolutely identical, but come on, if you insist on getting down to the molecular level, nothing's identical. They're close enough for me. Just shows you, not only is this column at the cutting edge of science, sometimes we have to wait for the cutting edge to catch up.

— Cecil Adams
 
because i hook up with girls therefore have a lots of story's i share with you all.

no, ask your mother.

i like mine

It's because sunlight striking air molecules is scattered in all directions. the blue portion of sunlight is scattered with greater intensity than other wavelengths. Since scattered light is the only reason the sky is illuminated at all the airless lunar sky as you no doubt recall is black, what you see is blue. Similarly when sunlight takes a very long path through the atmosphere as at sunset so much blue is diverted out of the direct path that you get a shift to the other end of the spectrum and the normally yellow-white sun appears red.

idk you should go to a urologist.

idk you should go to a urologist.

 
o fuck yeah i Googled copy and pasted the first link but this whole thread is about random knowledge not me. so Dear Cecil:

You are my last resort. In the TV series The Flintstones, what was Barney Rubble's job? We all know that Fred worked at the quarry, but Barney's job was never directly referred to, except in a couple episodes where he worked as a TV repossessor or a short-order chef, after having been fired from his regular (unknown) job. Please help!

— Nancy B., Chicago

Cecil replies:

I love this gig. Where else would I get the chance to be on the front lines of journalism, tracking down the questions all America is buzzing about? Actually, Barney's occupation was left up in the air in the early years of the series, which ran 166 episodes from 1960 through 1966. The folks at Hanna-Barbera, the studio that created the series, say Barney was a TV repossessor in one episode and a geological engineer in another — not your typical white-collar career path, but hey, it's the cartoons. They don't recall him being a short-order cook but admit it's possible. In later years Barney settled into a more comfortable existence working with Fred at the quarry. In one episode he was even made Fred's boss by Mr. Slate, the head honcho.

The problem with settling questions like this is that TV continuity ain't what it could be. In one episode, for example, Mr. Slate's first name was George and in another it was Sam. Once his company was called the Slate Rock and Gravel Company and another time Bedrock Quarry and Gravel. A little disconcerting, especially for hard-core Flintstones viewers, whose grip on reality has to be pretty shaky to start with. I'm sure the people at Hanna-Barbera are suitably chastened and won't let it happen again.

— Cecil Adams

or

Dear Cecil:

It's great to see Prince Andrew doing his part for noblesse oblige, but his decision to become a Royal Navy career man raises a perplexing question: what do his superior officers call him? They can't simply refer to him by his rank and last name, because he doesn't have a last name. And somehow it's hard to picture his squadron commander in the pitch of battle barking out, "If you please, Your Royal Highness, move your bloomin' arse!" Cecil, only you can resolve this question.

— Dwight S., Dumfries, Virginia

Cecil replies:

It probably will not surprise you to learn, Dwight, that the British armed forces have a special office, the Defence Services Secretary, whose solemn duty it is to issue instructions to the troops regarding the proper form of address for members of the royal family. (War may be brutal, the British feel, but there is no reason it has to be impolite.) The DSS's most recent pronunciamento, issued when Andy was still a mere prince, said he was to be introduced as "Lieutenant His Royal Highness, the Prince Andrew." (Naturally, since the British cannot stand to pronounce anything the way it is spelled, they say leftenant.) You, in turn, addressed him as "your royal highness" the first time around and thereafter, assuming you were his superior, as "Prince Andrew," "Lieutenant," "Andrew," or if all else failed, "hey, you."

Recently, however, Andrew was promoted, which naturally changes everything. The consensus among British officialdom is that he must now be introduced as "Lieutenant His Royal Highness, the Duke of York." On second reference, "Duke Andrew" being decidedly unkosher, "Prince Andrew" remains the preferred form.

Still, what folks are supposed to call him doesn't necessarily have much to do with what they do call him. Though one of Andy's old COs avers that everybody said "Prince Andrew," Cecil has it on good authority that the kid is known among his buddies as "H," short for HRH, His Royal Highness. As for the enlisted men — well, that's something else altogether. Cecil was chatting recently with a Royal Navy officer who had served on board the royal yacht when the King of Norway happened to visit. While inspecting the yacht's shipboard telephone directory, the officer was startled to find the king listed under N, for "Norway [King of]." And Rodney Dangerfield thinks he's got problems.

The Teeming Millions think they know better

Dear Cecil:

I always enjoy reading your column and was happy to be enlightened regarding the various titles applied to HRH Prince Andrew. However, your dope was not entirely straight. It is true that in the British army the word "lieutenant" is pronounced "leftenant," but in the Royal Navy it is pronounced much as it is in the United States, sounding something like "l'tenant." The Royal Navy hand salute is also similar to that of the U.S. armed forces and is different from the palm-out salute of the British army and air force.

— Don Boose, Yakota, Japan

Cecil replies:

Time to lay off the sake, Don. A captain with the British naval staff in Washington says the {leftenant} pronunciation is used in all branches of the British armed services, the navy included. You're right about the salutes, though.

Dear Cecil:

I'm amazed that you let slip by DS's comment that Prince Andrew has no last name. The family's last name is Windsor (changed from Hanover during World War I).

— Mr. Bill, Waters' Landing, Maryland

Cecil replies:

Where do I start? For one thing, the royal family name isn't Windsor, it's Mountbatten-Windsor, having been changed from Windsor in 1960. Second, prior to 1917, the family name wasn't Hanover, it was "Saxe-Coburg and Gotha." It was changed because it sounded too Teutonic for the taste of the British public during World War I.

Finally, while it's true British royals have family names, they don't have last names in the strict sense, that is, a name you would properly append to your given name(s) in formal usage. Prince Andrew's grandchildren in the male line, assuming no titles are bestowed on them, will be So-and-so Mountbatten-Windsor, but the prince himself is merely Andrew, period. That's the way he signs documents. (His mother signs Elizabeth R, for Regina, "queen.") His passport says Andrew plus all his other given names, followed by "Prince of the Royal Blood."

To some degree this business about titles supplanting last names also applies to nonroyal peers, such as your run-of-the-mill dukes. But it gets pretty complex, and if it's all the same to you, Cecil would just as soon quit while he's ahead.

The question that would not die, round 3

Dear Cecil:

I'm confused after reading your explanation of the changes in British royal family names over the years. Are you sure that before 1917 they used the surname Saxe-Coburg and Gotha? Saxe-Coburg and Gotha is the duchy in Germany where Queen Victoria's husband Albert was born. Prince Albert's father and older brother were known as Dukes of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, but according to Stanley Weintraub, who published an exhaustive biography of Queen Victoria last year, Albert's family name was actually Wettin. Did Edward VII, Victoria's successor, take the name of his father's birthplace as his own family name?

— Ms. Sweeney, Washington, D.C.

Cecil replies:

Why I ever got into this I'll never know. To tell you the truth, nobody is quite sure what the royal family name was prior to 1917. Certainly not the British, whose befuddlement in these matters is legendary. Part of the problem is that royal family names do not necessarily coincide with surnames. Queen Victoria was a member of the House of Hanover, but her family's surname, seldom if ever used, was Guelf, sometimes spelled Guelph.

Her marriage to Prince Albert confused things even more. Prior to 1917 it was generally supposed that Albert had belonged to the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. This irked the British public during World War I, when Albert's grandson George V was king. The writer H.G. Wells, for one, complained about Britain's "alien and uninspiring court," prompting George's famous remark, "I may be uninspiring, but I'll be damned if I'm alien."

Eventually George agreed to change his family name. No sooner had he done so, however, than it was discovered that no one was exactly sure what his family name was. "Was it 'Saxe-Coburg and Gotha'?" one historian wrote. "No, thought the College of Heralds, it was probably 'Wettin' or, even more outlandish, 'Wipper.'"

One giggles with glee at the vile puns one could work up on Wettin and Wipper, but no matter. They were swept out by royal proclamation in 1917 and replaced with Windsor, and for once the royal family name and surname were identical. Elizabeth II, however, could not bear to have this monotonously sensible state of affairs continue. In 1960 she proclaimed that while hers would remain the House of Windsor, her descendants would bear the surname "Mountbatten-Windsor." The traditional muddle was thus restored, and there the matter rests today.

— Cecil Adams
 
Loom at me im an electrical engineer. That means i know everything about everything because im an engineer. Thats where i stopped reading.
 
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