We all know the date and time when the first men landed on
the moon, and the name of the first astronaut to set foot there; but very few
outside of my family are aware that this event happened on my birthday. That’s
not a matter for historians to consider; but to me, it is a big deal. In fact,
the moon has had a special place in my heart ever since I was six years old and
watched the grainy, black and white footage of Neil Armstrong hopping off a
ladder on the side of the lunar module.
That day wasn’t a typical birthday scene with my family seated around the
dining room table waiting for me to blow out the candles on my birthday cake. I
remember having one of those conical, cardboard hats on with a rubber band
chinstrap digging into my skin. Yet, there was a distraction as a television broadcast,
repeating this momentous event for the world to see. The landing was a
technological miracle, if you will, and a knockout punch to the Russians, who
led the U.S.A. in the space race until then. Every American shared a sense of
pride in this accomplishment, especially Long Islanders, as the Grumman
Corporation made the lunar module. However, I was just a kid; and as much as I
wanted to be thrilled about this new world of space travel and astronauts
walking on the lunar surface, I was angry at Mr. Armstrong for ruining my party
with his spectacular interruption.
I got over my annoyance quickly, however, as the allure of all things related
to the cosmos caught up with me during those exciting times when we all watched
men in space suits bounce around in the light gravity on our closest heavenly
neighbor.
All my life I’ve been a night person. There is a mystery to the evening sky
which draws my eye to its inky shores sparkling with celestial jewels.
Throughout history, the moon, planets, and stars have beguiled both kings and
paupers alike. My life takes a turn now and then, and the moon offers solace; its
gentle face beckoning in its resolve to always be there.
My friend, this moon, which poets and scholars often describe, searches for me
whenever I am at my bedroom window during the early hours. Sometimes full,
other times partially shrouded, it hides among the clouds when the weather
denies us our conversations. My unwavering connection to this living, rocky
being (if you believe in its power as I do) persists, even when I glance away;
it always draws me back into its embrace.
Perhaps I was a part of the moon, once. The particles that compose each of us
have existed before in other forms. I feel echoes of its creation whenever I am
driving home and the car radio lulls my ears and allows my eyes to focus ahead
on the road glistening with rich, reflected sunlight. That the moon does not
radiate its own energy is a myth; the sun merely highlights it. The moon winks
at me when I deny I am a follower.
It knows my secrets, and I confide in the sky during my moments of hardship.
Those moments of fear, doubt, sorrow, and anxiety hours and hours of
sleeplessness where the window acts like a portal to the only object which has
seen it all from the beginning. It knows my faith in God, hears my struggle
with mortality, seeks to assuage my guilt for sins, and sins again, for which my
fault seems eternal.
Not long ago, a bright, orbiting vehicle captivated a boy in the night sky. It
drew him in, and he will never see it up close, not while he remains on this
planet, and not while he is alive. On a dark night, maybe a few short decades
from now, God willing, there will be a window nearby through which he can peek
at his friend and say hello, just before he begins his journey to the surface
of the moon.
astronaut Grumman kings Long Island moon Neil Armstrong paupers Venus
