A mere 39 years ago, the U.S. landed on the moon in glorious black & white. (At least at our house. We didn't get color TV until 1972.) That afternoon, I'd hitchhiked out to a Chicago Forest Preserve for a picnic with some high school friends. Holding Old Style long-neck bottles in our sophomore hands, we listened to the radio as lunar module Eagle set down in the Sea of Tranquility. This awesome moment was soured by a massive drunken senior who began randomly kicking ass. Quickly, the mayhem spread. Big Drunk's chum threw a beer bottle, hitting me in the head. I punched him. Then Big Drunk hit me between the eyes. I went down faster than IndyMac stock. Someone carried me to a car and I was dropped off near home.
By now it was evening. Inside my house, the only light was the glow of the TV. My brother, sister and parents watched the lunar module, waiting for something to happen. I'd arrived just in time. As my bruises blossomed, I saw Neil Armstrong step onto lunar soil. Wow! Someone was up there! A man was on the moon! (It must've been even more astounding to my parents.) That night, it seemed everything I'd ever read in science fiction was possible. What couldn't Mankind do?
Sustain the space program, for one. Three years later, the last manned lunar mission returned to Earth. We'd beaten the Soviets to the moon. Why keep going? Space money was needed to solve poverty and other pressing issues that money alone can't solve. I wish we'd kept going. (The spin-off technology alone would've made it worth while. ) I wish we'd pushed on into space. There is a part of Man that yearns to step across the comfortable threshold of the known and set foot in the beyond. I think I'll have some Tang.
