Where Pieces Collide

I was watching a very interesting documentary this evening.  First of all though, let me explain that this week marks our first week without cable TV.  We are getting used to it and still discovering how life after cable really works.  We have maybe realized, at least partially, that our schedule is very different now and that our viewing habits will change.  It is a little scary to think of the change but I am sure we will be fine with the challenge.  Who knows if we will keep this way of watching TV or if we will get cable again, once we hold out long enough for the cable company to offer us what we think is reasonable.  

 

After much research into this new world of off air digital TV and internet streaming.  I have discovered some new programming of which I was not aware.   One such channel is the Smithsonian Channel, no doubt it exists in some line ups, it was not included in ours.  I like documentaries and have seen quite a few of them.  Mary, my brother David and I created one for my folk’s 50^th wedding anniversary party, “That’s Their Story…” in 2007.  It was fun and really good, if I do say so myself.  That brings me, not quite so expeditiously, to tonight.  I was looking for something to watch, and found the Smithsonian Channel.  I reviewed its offerings and found some episodes of interest.  One was part of an ongoing series, The Real Story: Apollo 13.  Since I am a big fan of the Ron Howard movie, I wanted to see this real life history narrative.

 

Let me provide a little background for some readers that might be too young or might have lived under a rock in 1995 when the movie came out.  In 1970, NASA sent up what hopeful would be the seventh manned mission in the Apollo space program and the third intended to land on the Moon.  The lunar landing was aborted after an oxygen tank exploded two days later, crippling the Service Module upon which the Command Module depended. Despite great hardship caused by limited power, loss of cabin heat, shortage of potable water, and the critical need to jury-rig the carbon dioxide removal system, the crew returned safely to Earth on April 17.

In April 1970, I was 6 years old.  I remember only one event that year because it affected me so profoundly, so deeply that I never will forget how it felt.
 

Yes, I had my first encounter with death.  Unfortunately I was not close to my grandfather, after all I was a child and he, like me, never did understand children.  He was a grumpy old man that grouched around and so uncouthly removed his teeth sometimes, when he ate (after chewing his food with them, of course).  I would find out, later in life, what a kind and witty man he was and that he and I are so similar.  Although, in September of 1970,  I peered over the edge of the casket where he was lying; his glasses skewed high on his head and perched so oddly on his nose as he always wore them.  He wore a grey sport coat, the only one he owned.  Around his waist was the unfamiliar Mason apron, one he wore proudly at meetings.  There he was, lifeless.  My Dad said, “There boys, see, he looks like he is just sleeping.”   My Dad is a rock in times of stress and he always is my example of how to act in situations like these. 

 

As a child I had no concept that Dad was looking upon his Dad.  The man he grew up around, the man, perhaps, he had idolized; the man that no doubt had shaped my father into that rock in stressful situations; now, lain in a box at the end of his very tough journey.  I imagine that is a time of reflection on personal mortality, I do not look forward to that day and loath its inevitable coming.  Ah, but then, for a 6 year old this event took on legs. Not a lesson learned and not one of a positive spin motivating me to take on the world.  This experience left me with a very sobering thought, even for an adult; but as a little boy the notion occurred to me that life was a one way ticket and one eventual day I too would be in a sealed box in the ground.  This was one of the most terrifying ideas that could have entered into my head.  I ran into my folks bed room in tears, proclaiming my epiphany to which my Mother hugged me close and said, “Oh honey yes, but not for a long long long time.”  This helped and was a bit assuring. 

  

 

 

 

So, here I am years later watching this documentary about an event that was nationally significant and happened well within my cognitive development but of which I have no memory.  Many things of historical consequence happened in the late 60’s and 70’s that I don’t remember.  Martin Luther King, Jr.’s  assassination, church bombings, casualty lists in the paper and on the news ( I do remember though, the assassination of Bobby Kennedy, oddly enough).  I encourage the watching of this documentary it is really interesting.  In doing my research tonight, I was hoping to find that we had been distracted from the national news that April which would explain my void in memory and maybe we were distracted by Grampa’s grave illness at the time, but I certainly can’t positively pin it on him. 

 

Another one of life’s little pieces and as the years pile higher one of life’s little mysteries too.  I have matured a bit since then and have experienced a few more passings of people in my life.  Every funeral reminds me of that first one though, and as I try to emulate my Dad, I remember that feeling of hopelessness and dread.  No one truly looks ahead and welcomes the end.  As a matter of fact I try not to think of it at all.  Life is for the living, so I quote Stephen King’s Andy DuPree in the Shawshank Redemption, “Get busy livin’, or get busy dyin’”.  Our pieces collide with one another’s every minute of every day, every piece is part of your and my story, make it a good one!