Baby Boomers

I was 16, and after following every step of our space program, from Alan Sheppard right up until that July day, the anticipation and excitement gave the day a surreal vibe. It felt like something magical was about to happen. Hours before "the Eagle" landed my mother made sure I understood what an astonishing event we were watching in that small three bedroom bungalow in the northern suburbs of Detroit. She is the one who also made sure I never lost sight of the fact that every NASA flight we watched over the years was practice and preparation to go to the moon. As daylight faded that day, no one moved from the family room for fear of missing when Neil Armstrong would walk down that ladder and take that first step. I remember that the glow of the black and white TV was the only light that filled the room when Neil finally descended. My mother cried and my father played Frank Sinatra's "Fly Me to the Moon" on the Hi-Fi. It had been a long exhausting day, a long exhausting decade, and I fell off to sleep sometime after Buzz joined Neil, satisfied I too had gone the distance. Those who lived trough it all will understand.