We were all crazy about rockets.
The best were Estes Rockets, made here in Colorado. My great aunt worked in the factory outside of Florence.
These beauties came with powerful fuel chambers. You’d set off the charge, with a fuse or a battery. And FOOM, a spurt of orange and the rocket would woooosh up up up and at the top of the arc, a plastic parachute would blow open and the rocket would drift down. My family couldn’t afford them, but Dave Sanders across the street had a few. He’d let the rest of us watch at the copy of the Saturn blasted off into the hard, blue sky.
That was only the beginning. I had a full on huge model of the Apollo capsule as part of a GI Joe action figure set. All of the kids — Steve, Dave, Dave Trujillo, Scott, Russ — had helmets and some even had space boots, which really helped sell the effect.
And I had a model of the Saturn, the capsule, and best, of all, the lunar module itself, a totally sci fi looking object, all insect and slope eyed, brutally styled with those planes and oddly delicate along the legs.
Our imaginations pulsed with astronauts, space ships, distant planets, Star Trek, aliens, men in the moon. We read sci-fi non-stop. (Some of us). We marveled how Jules Verne managed to predict so much about the lunar voyage. We played moon landing or space invasions all across the vacant lots and playgrounds, dirt becoming lunar soil, grass became extra terrestrial monsters who’d suck you down if you let them.
Bill, a fellow obsessive, and I would trade facts about the thrust force of the engines, the weight of the space suits. We had favorites. Mine was Buzz Aldrin — something about his face appealed to me, and he seemed like the smartest one. No one wanted to identify with the one left behind. I felt Aldrin got cheated on being the first one out of the lunar module.
People really don’t give little kids enough credit for what they can learn.
I pleaded with my mother to take me to see 2001, endlessly, relentlessly. I was too young, and she kept saying so, until, uncharacteristically, worn down, she gave in. The film in its chilly eternities opened up something sublime and terrifying inside of me. I had nightmares for weeks afterwards, thinking of the astronaut whom HAL cut off and sent driving into the the endless void. My mother, tartly, after the third or so night of comforting me, couldn’t help saying she had told me so.
And, of course, television. Walter Cronkite was the only announcer we believed in. Maybe because we sensed the same boy’s enthusiasm in him that we burned with.
I don’t remember the lead up to the landing. The launch, yes, with the Jovian power bursting out of the television as the great rocket blasted off and arched into the sky.
The day of the landing, we all sat glued to the big square hulk of the family black and white. (“Don’t sit too close, honey.”) Each stage, each move was filled with excruciating suspense. We’d learned the whole thing could go horribly wrong.
The landing especially was almost unbearable. I’d read someplace about a lunar geologist theorizing that the sandy surface of the moon might have no bottom and simply suck the landing module down, like quicksand.
That didn’t happen. Armstrong bounced down, and said his line. We began to breathe again. The flag looked strange and crinkly as they saluted.
I wandered out into the hot evening, barefooted, feeling the nice roughness of the concrete driveway. I went to the end of it, and looked up. Sure enough, the moon was there, and my brain seemed to expand and stretch and knock against its own walls as I tried to realize, and tried to imagine those men on that moon.
We celebrated like sports fans, but it only looked like that. It went deeper. We’d all of us gazed into space, lifted for just a few seconds, anyway, out of the daily.
And, if none of the dreams were realized, if world peace didn’t descend, or cosmic compassion wash over the Earth, if I never made it to flight school, and if we didn’t keep our promises, well, that just makes us rooted to this blue green planet, makes us sad and human.
But we have our moments — not so much in the exploits of those daring astronauts as in the opening of our imaginations to new terrors, new visions, and new lives.