Here’s a curious thing about getting older: Sometimes things that happened 50 years ago seem more real than things that happened yesterday.
At present, America seems to be having a collective “moment” remembering the year 1969. It is centered on the moon landing 50 years ago this week and, more specifically, Neil Armstrong placing the first human footprints on the lunar surface.
At age 61, it’s a bummer for me to realize I experienced the apex of human achievement when I was just 11. Still, nothing that has happened since 1969 seems nearly as historical as Armstrong’s adventure. I grieve for our kids that they don’t have anything remotely as inspiring as the Apollo space shots to idolize.
Oh, I know there’s talk of going to Mars, but it’s hard to believe that a nation governed by political parties that can’t even agree on fixing roads and bridges is suddenly going to find the common ground necessary to mount a near-term manned mission to Mars. (Oops, I mean “personed” mission.)
I remember the day Armstrong walked on the moon. I was with my family hanging out at the swimming pool at Davy Crockett State Park near Lawrenceburg, Tennessee. In my 11-year-old way, I was awed by Armstrong. But I was equally awed by the teenage girls who worked as lifeguards at Davy Crockett Park and by the french fries sold at the concession stand.
