I remember exactly fifty years ago today, the wonder of observing live (on TV) the first setting of a human foot on a foreign body in space over 270,000 miles from Earth. Apollo 11 had settled down safely on the moon's surface a short while earlier (I think Neil Armstrong had only a few seconds of extra rocket fuel left aboard the Eagle when he picked a boulder free landing site to land upon, before he started using the reserve committed to lifting off again). That was a wonder in itself but when, listening that evening (on Nantucket) to the pinging of the transmission sounds from the moon on the live TV shot and watching from a remote camera shot the awkward, jerky-jerky descent of the fully space-suited Armstrong down the pod's short ladder to step onto the moon's surface, that was an incredible few seconds.
Awe inspiring. What an American achievement, an incredible undertaking equal to Operation Overlord or the Manhattan Project, a difficult enterprise brilliantly executed that shouted out the greatness of America which has never dimmed from that day. (MAGA. What cockamamie horse shit.)
Even Armstrong's corny, scripted words, sexist though they were even then, were thrilling to hear in the moment. "A small step for man. A giant leap for mankind."
I went out on the side porch and looked at the moon, brilliant in the dark, clear, sky. I could have stood in the back yard and observed it rhapsodically for as long as I cared to but I wanted to be closer to it in the thrill of the moment so I jumped up, grabbed the gutter and pulled myself up to the roofline and hung on it for a minute, a few feet nearer to the celestial orb as I observed it in wonderment, a new destiny which humankind had claimed that night in America.
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