Neil Armstrong died.
Everybody (who is old enough) claims to remember exactly where they were
when Armstrong stepped on the moon on July 20, 1969, at 10:56 p.m. EST. I know
for sure I was at home in New Hampshire, but I'm having some trouble with the
particulars.
We had a huge family tent set up on a platform next to the
house, and we kids often stayed out there for sleepovers, setting ourselves up
with an extension cord so we were more citified than countrified. It was the sixties version of being
"plugged in/connected." We had a portable black & white TV out
there, and we were watching the moon landing expedition on the small set. I always believed that I watched Man Step on
the Moon on that TV in the big green tent.
The more I think about it, though, I'm reasonably sure that
we ran inside to watch the historic event on a bigger, color TV in the
house. Perhaps that is the detail that I
misremember. I am certain I saw Neil Armstrong take that step, and I remember what
he said and how his voice sounded and the beeping on the video feed. I remember that it was a grainy picture and
void of color. I remember how exciting
it all was and still is forty-plus years later.
I consider this good news because I don't remember where I
was when Elvis keeled over dead and fell off the toilet, nor where I was when
Mama Cass choked to death on a sandwich, nor where I was when Michael Jackson
or Joplin or Hendrix or Ledger or Whinehouse (etc. etc. etc.) overdosed, nor
where I was when Jeffrey Dahmer received his ultimate brutal broomstick
beat-down. I guess I consider stepping
on the moon for the first time to be more important than pulling a
Hey-Diddle-Diddle and fatally shooting it, smoking it, snorting it, swallowing
it, or jumping over it.
Rest in Peace, Neil Armstrong; we'll see you on the dark
side of the moon.
