July 20th 1969

Ever since I can remember I have wanted to go to the moon. My fascination with its wonder and beauty begin as a child. I would stand outside staring into the night sky until I could stand no longer. Then I would lie down in the grass and continue to gaze. The soft glow illuminated the face slightly as a shadow formed on the earth below. I had no concern for the dew that was darkening the tiny families of thread that made up my worn out Captain Kangaroo tee shirt.

 

Looking at the moon made a strange feeling come across my entire body. I felt anxious as if I were contemplating the biggest movement of my entire life. An almost indescribable feeling shared only by pilots the moment before they leap from an aircraft as it speeds toward the ground. Kinetic energy built in my body, as I lay motionless on the cold soil. I became desensitized to the faint prick into my back made by the recently cutgrass. The sight before me muted the symphony orchestrated by a hum of various nocturnal creatures. I no longer recognized the warm summer breeze licking against my face as if it has something very important to tell me.

 

The only thoughts occupying my mind involved the moon’s splendor. If something seen from 250,000 miles away could be so beautiful one could not even begin to comprehend its magnificence up close. I wanted to see for myself if it contradicted the ball of cheese image depicted by the illustrators of kindergarten literature. Looking at a vision of the moon rendered by bent glass and plastic cylinders could not provide me with the fulfillment I yearned for. The feeling of a kiss.  The taste of a ripened fruit. These things cannot be synthetically generated or explained in a book. They have to be experienced. I knew I would have to visit the moon to in order to fully understand why it is so beautiful.

 

Some nights I continued to stare onward with diligence, like a wife watching her husband enter an air terminal knowing this was the image she would have to recall upon as she awaited his return. Every morning the moon’s light would disappear over the horizon. Gone from my and everyone else’s view until dusk. Unlike everyone else I was unable to dismiss the moon from my thoughts. She was never absent from my mind. The bags under my eyes were evidence of my fascination.

 

I would recall the night prior several times during the day. I knew that it was impossible for someone to go to the moon. It was so far away. There was nothing I could do. This unobtainable attribute only made the moon more intriguing. There was complexity to be found in the moon’s simplicity. Her mysterious and exotic behaviors made her more mesmerizing. I was only permitted to see half of the moon for half of the day but I was enthralled. Yet I knew in the back of my mind that I was unable to go to the moon. I did everything in my power to elude the truth but it still managed to torture me.

 

On July 20, 1969, three days after my ninth birthday I sat in my smoke filled living room. I demonstrated to my little brother and cousins how my new hot wheels cars could whoosh down the track clamped to a kitchen chair. Our stomachs were full with meatloaf and potatoes. The television lit the room. Just as every Sunday evening prior my aunt and uncle would join with my parents to drink cognac and smoke cigarettes while they watched Dean Martin. Compound words like “Real-estate” and “Interest Rate” escaped their mouths between puffs of smoke. Their voices blended together with the crackling sound from television’s speaker to form a language I could not speak. Always present the smoke was just as part of home as the brown, yellow, and orange stain covered shag carpet who’s long fibers got tangled in the wheels of my 1:64 scale Mustang. Suddenly a silence filled the room. Dean Martin was no longer on the other side of the grey slightly curved glass. Never taking his eyes off the screen my father snuffed out the last glowing embers of his Marlboro. The stubby wrinkled cigarette butt lay lifeless in the ugly brown ceramic ashtray. My uncle’s raspy voice broke the silence. He instructed us turn our attention to the screen.

 

A lightly colored figure emerged from the various shades of grey on the monitor. The man dressed in something that appeared to right out of The Twilight Zone stiffly climbed down a tangled mess of wire. A gargled voice rang out from the single RCA speaker. Every few moments a piercing beep was audible. I then realized what was happening. My stomach sank. Everything in the room faded to black. No more smoke. No more Uncle Mike. No more Mom and Dad. Just that twelve-inch screen and myself. A second man emerged as the flickering television set buzzed. These two men knew what no other person in history does. They know how the moon smells. They have stood on a place 250,000 miles away. A Wapakoneta, Ohio man had achieved my dream. I was once again standing in front of the recently flung open door of a B-52. The thoughts in my head did not involve the parachute on my back. I knew that one-day, I would go to the moon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Andrew Quinn 2008.