On July 20, 1969, America landed the first men on the moon.
During that same period of time, my family had landed in the high cascades of Oregon, as we did nearly every summer, where we stayed 2-3 weeks in a cabin at Olallie Lake Resort. This summer, however, my father was so enthused about the impending moon landing that he drove the whole family back home for one night so that we could view the event on television.
I don't remember very much about it now. I was more enthused to have landed in those beloved woods of my youth with their dozens of fresh water lakes and bubbling streams, teaming with brook trout and rainbow trout and frogs and salamanders and water snakes and tadpoles, wrapped in the waving grasses of green meadows, reclining in the shade of rocky peaks on the rolling shoulders of the meandering hills. The moon seemed a drab and barren place--pointless in comparison to this, just as gray and grainy in reality as the picture on our black and white TV.
And yet, by the time we drove back to the mountains, something had happened. Something had been transferred from those two men on the moon to all Americans. Something had been added, however vague, however obscure, to who we were. We had been to the moon, all of us.
And because we had been to the moon, and gazed upon the black expanse of space, and tasted with our eyes the thirsty dust of a vacant, airless place, this wonder of our terrestrial home was the more breathlessly wonderful yet. As I walked those woods in the ensuing days, some shadow of a shadow, incorporated in my footsteps, trod upon the ashen, lifeless sands of the moon, and the shadow was vibrant with gratitude and praise, for its toes had touched the very essence of absence.
We have forgotten in this day the meaning in the sands of the moon. We have forgotten where our feet have been. We have forgotten where we came from, and that where we came from is all of us together.
During that same period of time, my family had landed in the high cascades of Oregon, as we did nearly every summer, where we stayed 2-3 weeks in a cabin at Olallie Lake Resort. This summer, however, my father was so enthused about the impending moon landing that he drove the whole family back home for one night so that we could view the event on television.
I don't remember very much about it now. I was more enthused to have landed in those beloved woods of my youth with their dozens of fresh water lakes and bubbling streams, teaming with brook trout and rainbow trout and frogs and salamanders and water snakes and tadpoles, wrapped in the waving grasses of green meadows, reclining in the shade of rocky peaks on the rolling shoulders of the meandering hills. The moon seemed a drab and barren place--pointless in comparison to this, just as gray and grainy in reality as the picture on our black and white TV.
And yet, by the time we drove back to the mountains, something had happened. Something had been transferred from those two men on the moon to all Americans. Something had been added, however vague, however obscure, to who we were. We had been to the moon, all of us.
And because we had been to the moon, and gazed upon the black expanse of space, and tasted with our eyes the thirsty dust of a vacant, airless place, this wonder of our terrestrial home was the more breathlessly wonderful yet. As I walked those woods in the ensuing days, some shadow of a shadow, incorporated in my footsteps, trod upon the ashen, lifeless sands of the moon, and the shadow was vibrant with gratitude and praise, for its toes had touched the very essence of absence.
We have forgotten in this day the meaning in the sands of the moon. We have forgotten where our feet have been. We have forgotten where we came from, and that where we came from is all of us together.
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