Remembering the Moon Landing

Forty years ago today, men landed on the moon. I was five years old and I'll never forget it.

We were at Grandma's house in Vincennes, Indiana. She had a black-and-white TV that received only three stations (as opposed to the whopping eleven stations we got at home in Ypsilanti, Michigan), but that's all we needed. Since Neil Armstrong's first step took place somewhat later at night than I'm sure my parents would have allowed me to stay up at that age, what is in my memory must be replays that aired the next day. Nevertheless, I watched in wonder as Walter Cronkite narrated the adventure for the world. I don't specifically remember Neil Armstrong saying, "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind," but I distinctly recall thinking how funny he looked as he bounded across the moon's surface as if he were on some strange trampoline.

Later that night, Dad took me outside to Grandma's front yard where we could see a waxing crescent moon shining down on all of us. He pointed to it and said, "Those men are up there right now." I strained my eyes and swore I could see little dots walking around on the surface.

Those were heady days. Gas stations gave away Apollo glasses that were fun to drink out of. Anything associated with the space program had a certain thrill to it. Astronauts who drank Tang and used Fisher Space Pens were heroes to a country in desperate need of them. The event became a byword. "We can put a man on the moon, but we can't ______ (fill in the blank - usually reserved for some mundane, even stupid, task)."

The excitement that gripped the nation inspired a five-year-old girl to think beyond the here-and-now to a future that is not only possible, but probable. I learned that pie-in-the-sky dreams are attainable if you but have a craft that can reach them.

To all of today's Chicken Littles who would have us huddle in fear of everything and everyone, I say, "Phhbbbbt." These people cannot possibly have lived in a time when dreams were achievable and risks were worth taking. Or if they did, they did not learn its lessons.

But for the rest of us, the world is full of adventures, and we have only to stretch our hands out to grasp them. Aim high and reach for the sky! What a great attitude. What a great way to live life! What better legacy could the first manned moon landing bequeath to us forty years later?

Living in a Cemetery

In his comment on my post Tag, You're It, Sparks asked how I came to spend the first year and a half of my life in a cemetery. It's a logical question, since, after all, most people usually wait until their lives have ended to make their first foray into the collection of deep sixers that make up most cemeteries. But I had to break the mold. Or the burial vault, if you will.

In the early sixties, my dad's uncle was caretaker for Highland Cemetery in Ypsilanti, Michigan. Uncle Stanley lived with his family in one of two houses that were on the cemetery property. The other house was split into two apartments. When my parents got married in 1962, they moved into the lower-level apartment in that second house. Dad even helped Uncle Stanley with some of the cemetery work. I was born in 1964, and our happy little family of three lived there until the middle of 1965, when Mom and Dad bought the house they still live in.

Even after we moved out of the cemetery, we went back there for family reunions. Uncle Stanley, Aunt Ruth, and the cousins still lived there, and beside the house was a great expanse of lawn upon which we picnicked and played softball.

Yes, we played softball in a cemetery! There was a mausoleum in right field, and sometimes home run balls ricocheted off its roof. In later years, graves infiltrated left field, which would have made chasing down fly balls that much more difficult. At that point, the family gatherings were sort of dying out anyway, so it was just as well.

After we left, other cousins moved into the cemetery apartment, and we visited them often. So although I have no memories of the apartment when we lived there, I remember it well from the many New Year's Eve parties and other visits our family made.

I still love to go back to Highland Cemetery, where I wander among the graves of some of my relatives. I usually steal a glance at the lawn where softballs once flew. Uncle Stanley's house (and maybe even the apartment house, too) is now a historical landmark, and the birthday parties I once attended there are long in the past. Heck, I just love wandering cemeteries on general principle. They are fascinating places. But mainly they remind me of the cemetery where I spent my first year and a half of life.