Starry Night

Illustration borrowed for the occasion
from the blog Sweetpea Path

When I heard the news that Neil Armstrong had died

it took me back to that day, July 20, 1969, when the Eagle

was scheduled to land on the Moon.

The Moon, a place about 238,900 miles away

from anyplace on Earth I might be sitting. Ever.

I'd read an article in a magazine with instructions 

on how to take photos of the landing on the 

TV screen. I bought a roll of Kodak Tri-X film,

put it in my trusty Honeywell H1a 35mm SLR

and sat in the living room in front of 

the black and white television.

It was a warm, quiet evening. 

No one was in the house but me 

as I watched the events unfold in marvelous, 

fuzzy, flickering black and white.

I'd pre-focused the camera and set the f-stop

so I wouldn't have to worry about it, then waited.

Like the rest of the people, I sat and watched the screen

as one foot, then another descended the ladder,

taking pictures as it played out.

"One small step for man,

one giant leap for mankind."

 I watched as transparent images of

astronauts walked, skipped, and seemed to dance

on the Moon's surface. I was so proud of them,

and so happy for the men sitting in Houston

at Mission Control that I cried.

I wanted to do that, I wanted to be there

on the end of a rocket, like a giant

canned ham being launched towards the skies,

but what could NASA do with someone

whose only skills are drawing and maybe

splattering white paint on a dark blue canvas?

Forty years later, I would often sit at night

on the banks of the Muskingum River, listening

to friends chat around the bonfire while I

stared up at the night sky, strewn with the stars

of the Milky Way Galaxy. The beauty of 

those evenings was so palpable, I can still hear

Carl's voice telling a story as the fire's embers

floated up to meet the stars. Sometimes I saw 

a satellite speed across the sky,

another time the space station.

Several years ago, Carl and I visited Mission Control

at the Houston Space Center. We both were

surprised how small it was, at the tiny computer 

screens and the black telephones. I don't think it had

occurred to either one of us until that moment

just how momentous the achievement was because,

compared to electronics we have now,

NASA was able to send men to the Moon

and bring them home with today's electronic equivalent 

of tin cans, string, and aluminum foil hats.

As I contemplated myself on this small speck of sand

where we spun and swooshed our way through

space, I sometimes thought of Neil Armstrong,

when he looked back towards home, towards

Earth, and saw a beautiful blue planet.

When he came back, Armstrong did the coolest thing. 

In a world where he could have eaten out the rest of his life

as "The First Man to Walk on the Moon," he instead

came home, went back to school and became a teacher.

He didn't keep what he knew, like some special

double-double-secret information.

No, he taught other people to become engineers

so they might be able to explore the universe,

to look back and see the Earth as he had done

so many years ago. 

My pictures? They came out just fine, but

were somehow lost, I don't know how.

It almost doesn't matter, because I have those images

etched in my memory forever, along with the bonfires

and the Milky Way.