Through The Looking Glass: 1969

I was four when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Alldrin stepped foot on the moon, boldly declaring a small step for man and a giant leap for mankind. I watched it happen in black and white on a huge TV, roughly the size of Los Angeles. The beast was fully equipped with 13 stations on the dial plus a separate dial labeled VHF that no one ever touched, except me. When everyone else was distracted--which seemed often in a house full of six kids-- I’d take that useless VHF dial in my small hand and twist it hard, clockwise, as fast as I could just to see how many times I could get it to rotate without letting go.

But on this particular day, no one was distracted. Apparently these moon men in the big white suits on TV were important because dad called the whole family into the den to watch. With a Pall Mall cigarette hanging from his lower lip, he carefully rotated the big rabbit-ear antenna on top to make sure the picture came in clear without a bunch of black and white dots that looked like snow. Mom, ever diligent, took an extra spritz-spritz of Windex to the screen to ensure a streak-free view of history in the making. The memory from here fades, but I do remember the feeling of being part of something important. Afterall, Dad called us all together to see it.

I’m 44 now, wondering what my own small step for mankind will be. I’m fairly certain the heels on my two-inch black boots won’t make an imprint in lunar dust, but will they scuff something more than my kitchen floor? Am I destined for something more?

I often feel small and curious. It’s a trait I first noticed when I was around 15 having tempura with my sister. I exclaimed, in all my fifteen-year-oldness: “Why are we HERE? What’s our PURPOSE?” To which she responded, in perfect Patterson fashion, by pouring me another shot of hot sake.

I still don’t know what my imprint will be. At this point I hope there’s a little dent that shows a mom trying her very best, a loyal friend and sister, and someone who brings a smile to someone every day.