Tribute to the Man on the Moon

I don't want to sound like Forrest Gump, always inserting myself in famous situations, but when Neil Armstrong died this week, it reminded me of my childhood.
I'm too young to remember watching the moon landing on TV, although I'm sure my parents plunked me down in front of it to see the historic moment. What I remember about Neil Armstrong was going to school with his son, Mark, who is my age.
Somewhere around 4th or 5th grade, the Armstrongs moved to Lebanon, Ohio, my hometown. They bought a big green farm house on a winding road, and Mark attended the same middle school as me. Well, there was only one middle school for our little town. It's the same school that you can see in the movie Harper Valley PTA which was filmed in our town.
I'm not sure when Mark and I became friends, but my mother later told me that his mother always made sure Mark and I were in the same class, because she thought the competition was good for him. Who would be surprised to learn that I was competitive about getting the best grades in class?
So throughout middle school, Mark and I shared a classroom and around about 6th grade, we started attending boy/girl parties and going on outings to Kings Island amusement park, which was close by.
Apparently, our paths diverged in high school, and I ended up graduating a year early, so I didn't see Mark again, although my dad told me he asked about me one day when Dad saw him at the local YMCA.
Just last month, I found Mark on Facebook. I sent him a message about his complicated science majors at college. I have politics on my Facebook page, and Mark let me know right away that he disagreed with my politics.
I replied: "Yikes. Launching into politics first thing? Can't we talk about Kings Island in 6th grade instead?"
I was afraid my friend Mark was lost to me forever.
Luckily, he messaged back letting me know he retained his wit: "Too soon? But, uh, you did put it out there on your home page which makes it fair game, right? Actually, I'm quite happy to stay away from politics. So, do you prefer the blue or the red Racer. Do you like to ride forwards or backwards?"
The Racer is the original roller coaster at Kings Island, and I'm sure many of our conversations in middle school centered around which was the best.
But the whole idea about politics being "fair game" made me want to retort, "We aren't competing any more."
I was in the midst of delivering kids to school, so I didn't message back, not until this week, when I heard his father had died.
I avoided mentioning the obvious, that it's weird to hear that someone's parent died on the news. Mark's dad didn't just belong to him; he belonged to the whole world as the first man to walk on the moon.
So Mark will always have to share his dad, but right now, he's the one who is suffering the loss.
Tonight, when I look up at the Blue Moon, the second full moon in one month, I'll remember Neil Armstrong, the man who made history, and fathered my middle school friend.

Memories of a Suburban Childhood

What's your earliest memory?
In talking to people, I find that most everyone remembers something from the time they were three. It might be non-sensical. It might be a joyous memory, but it seems like the bad memories might outweigh the joy. A lot of people remember something bad happening.
My earliest memory is of being at my aunt's house when she lived in the same town where I grew up. I can picture the kitchen table with a sliding glass door behind it and a long hallway that led to the bedrooms. The adults were clustered around the table, and I'll assume that the older kids were playing outside, but I was too young to be included. Someone, my Aunt June, I think, gave me a cluster of keys on a ring. Someone else suggested I see which door those keys fit.
Being a logical and reasonable child, I closed and locked every door along the hallway then went back to the beginning of the hall and started checking keys to see which doors they might unlock.
I remember the hullabaloo when the adults discovered that I had pushed the buttons to lock all of the doors and closed them behind me. Truthfully, the set of keys in my hand didn't unlock any of those interior doors. The adults began to ask why I hadn't tried this or that instead to see if the keys worked. I couldn't seem to explain to them why I closed and locked the doors.
I think it was a struggle to get all of those doors unlocked. So I was chided and laughed at a bit. That was my first memory.
My mom says I can't possible remember that because my aunt moved out of that house before I was 2. Maybe I've got the memory wrong. Maybe it was another house, another aunt, another set of keys.
I'm kind of bummed that my first memory is something I got in trouble for. Why can't it be my first taste of chocolate instead?
What's your earliest memory?

Simple Pleasures

I'm not sure if everyone would consider it much of a vacation to stay holed up and work on a novel for three days straight, but that is what I have done. My only break has been to walk downtown to get coffee every morning.
It's about a mile to our little downtown strip and we have three excellent coffee shops.
The day was already promising to be hot when I set out around 9:30 a.m.
I'd turned onto the main east/west street when I saw a little girl in front of her brick house. She was standing by a stroller and her mom disappeared inside the door. The little girl had two braids that nearly reached her shoulders. She was three or four years old and focused very hard on the stroller next to her.
I thought she said something, so I smiled and waved.
Then she looked at me and blurted out, "Grandma's coming!"
"What fun!" I responded.
Her mother came out then and, so I wouldn't be thought of as a potential child snatcher, I repeated the brief exchange for her mother.
"Not until after lunch though," the little girl added.
"That's a long time to wait," I sympathized.
I just loved the little girl's enthusiasm. The best thing that could have happened in her life was grandma coming to visit.
Ah, the simple pleasures of childhood.
Here are my kids, about 12 years ago, enjoying a visit with their grandparents.

Rushing Through Life

I was making school lunches the other morning -- a job I loathe even though I've only done it for three years -- when I suddenly remembered that next year I'd only have to pack two lunches. Grace would be gone to college so I'd only pack for the boys. I perked up at the thought of buying one box of drinks that lasted the whole week. Three kids, five days a week -- that's 15 drinks. Whereas two kids... well, you do the math.
Then this week Grace is gone as a counselor at 5th grade camp. I'm packing two lunches in the morning for the boys, but I miss Grace. And that's when I realized that with packing lunches and so many other things, I'm anxious to get on to the next step. I want to put this stage behind me, put a big check mark next to it and move on.
When the kids were little we had boxes and boxes of hand-me-down clothes. We were lucky to have so many clothes for the kids, but I hated all the clutter from the boxes. The boys clothes came from my brothers' sons and the girl clothes came from Earl's sisters' daughters. I separated them according to size and when the youngest reached that size, I could throw out the box crowding the attic. I couldn't wait to get rid of all those big boxes. It wasn't until later that I realized how I was rushing through the kids' childhoods because I wanted to get rid of boxes of hand-me-downs.
I wonder what else I am sprinting through, not taking the time to enjoy, anxious to clean up and finish?
Because, I have to tell you that this week, with Grace gone and only fixing two lunches, I'm not really using that extra time wisely. It's not like I take the time I saved and work on the the great American novel.
Another game of gem drop anybody?