A few weeks ago, Monte decided after several months and one move to get the telescope out and aim it at the sky. We have a pretty nice telescope. I mean, it's not going to put Kitt Peak or Hubble out of business or anything, but it's something you assemble and can hook your computer up to for star location, so it's a little more involved than one of those pirate eye pieces you see on the television.
The kids were excited, because they were outside in the twilight in their pajamas trying to see well enough by the street light to make chalk drawings on the driveway or challenge each other to run the length of our sidewalk in their bare feet.
So when Monte called the boys over to take a detailed look at the moon's craters, there was a general reluctance from the under twelve set to quit what they were doing and go over and see. That's when I decided they needed to respect the effort it takes to put the silly telescope together, and be more appreciative and aware of the real reason they were outside past bedtime.
"Boys!" I said. "Get over here and look at this beautiful moon! You should be more thankful for the things daddy does for you. After all, when I was a little girl, we didn't have telescopes!"
Considering Galileo had one, that makes me really really old. Of course, then I had to backpedal and explain that I meant our family didn't own its own personal telescope, but by then the damage had been done and the the jokes were flying.
I think what I should have said was, when I was a little girl our school didn't have an astronomy department. Or computers.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
Where were you when . . .
Last night, as I was sitting alone in bed in a totally quiet house, I turned on the network news. At any other time these conditions would be so improbable they would approach the "never ever happens" category. Any other night Monte (who is presently Missouri for work) would be watching something Tivo-ed, or a live Thunder game, but he would not be watching the news. And when he's gone, which he sometimes is for work, the boys are usually running around resisting bedtime, which means I would not be watching the news. But the planets lined up, Monte was gone, the boys went to bed without much of a fight, and there I was, watching the news.
And at about the same time as the rest of the world, I found out Osama Bin Laden had been killed.
I was pretty shocked, because it was so unexpected. I mean after all, it has been 9 years, 7 months and 20 days since 9-11. I was so stunned I could hardly think of how to feel. Elated. Sad. Exhausted. All sorts of things rushed through me.
And then I remembered the first time a news story made me feel very small in a world so big and unpredictable.
It was March 21, 1981 in the afternoon, and I was riding a school bus home from the 6th grade. I got off the bus at my Grandma's house, which I didn't ordinarily do. If I hadn't done that, I wouldn't have watched the news. But she was watching the news, and pretty intently too, because President Regan had just been shot. I remember sitting beside her in Grandpa's chair, watching the world go crazy, and hearing the news men repeat the same facts over and over. Regan was waving to the crowd, when someone shot him. Other people were shot too. Mr. Regan was raced to the hospital. That's all we know at this time.
And then . . .
January 28, 1986. I was a junior in high school, on my way to third period. I think it was Journalism class, which if true is a bit ironic. I passed through a common area where some TVs were set up (unusual) and a newscaster was saying that after being in the air a little over a minute, the Space Shuttle Challenger carrying a teacher and some astronauts, blew up, killing everyone inside. Teachers, students, staff members, and the vice principal stood there and watched the coverage. The tardy bell rang, and still nobody moved. None of the adults told us to move. We just stood and stared and tried to wrap our minds around the words and pictures, while the TV reporter repeated, "That's all we know at this time."
April 19, 1995. I was in my office at Moberly Regional Medical Center at 9:15 when the phone rang. It was Monte, and he was frantic. There had been a bombing in downtown Oklahoma City. His mother, father and sister all worked downtown, and he hadn't been able to get through to them. I don't think they had cell phones at the time. I turned on a radio, and heard a report about the bombing, in which the report explained that, although a truck had exploded outside the Murrah building in an act of terrorism, they didn't really know more than that at the present time.
February 1, 2003. Monte and I were headed to St. Louis with our friends Michael and Alicia Moore. We were putting the babies in the car when Michael called out and told us to look at the television. The space shuttle Columbia had exploded while it was trying to reenter the earth's atmosphere to land. I said, "I'll never forget we were here at your house when this happened" and Michael (a psychologist) replied, "that phenomena is called 'snapshot memory.'" Of course, the TV in the background was again saying it had no more information to report, even as we stared at the screen, willing it to tell us why this thing had happened.
I can't imagine what it must have been like on November 22, 1963 when Kennedy was shot, or April 30, 1945 when Hitler committed suicide, or April 15, 1912 when the Titanic sank. Overwhelming.
I think for the rest of the day I will turn off the TV and hug my children. Seems like the right thing to do.
And at about the same time as the rest of the world, I found out Osama Bin Laden had been killed.
I was pretty shocked, because it was so unexpected. I mean after all, it has been 9 years, 7 months and 20 days since 9-11. I was so stunned I could hardly think of how to feel. Elated. Sad. Exhausted. All sorts of things rushed through me.
And then I remembered the first time a news story made me feel very small in a world so big and unpredictable.
It was March 21, 1981 in the afternoon, and I was riding a school bus home from the 6th grade. I got off the bus at my Grandma's house, which I didn't ordinarily do. If I hadn't done that, I wouldn't have watched the news. But she was watching the news, and pretty intently too, because President Regan had just been shot. I remember sitting beside her in Grandpa's chair, watching the world go crazy, and hearing the news men repeat the same facts over and over. Regan was waving to the crowd, when someone shot him. Other people were shot too. Mr. Regan was raced to the hospital. That's all we know at this time.
And then . . .
January 28, 1986. I was a junior in high school, on my way to third period. I think it was Journalism class, which if true is a bit ironic. I passed through a common area where some TVs were set up (unusual) and a newscaster was saying that after being in the air a little over a minute, the Space Shuttle Challenger carrying a teacher and some astronauts, blew up, killing everyone inside. Teachers, students, staff members, and the vice principal stood there and watched the coverage. The tardy bell rang, and still nobody moved. None of the adults told us to move. We just stood and stared and tried to wrap our minds around the words and pictures, while the TV reporter repeated, "That's all we know at this time."
April 19, 1995. I was in my office at Moberly Regional Medical Center at 9:15 when the phone rang. It was Monte, and he was frantic. There had been a bombing in downtown Oklahoma City. His mother, father and sister all worked downtown, and he hadn't been able to get through to them. I don't think they had cell phones at the time. I turned on a radio, and heard a report about the bombing, in which the report explained that, although a truck had exploded outside the Murrah building in an act of terrorism, they didn't really know more than that at the present time.
February 1, 2003. Monte and I were headed to St. Louis with our friends Michael and Alicia Moore. We were putting the babies in the car when Michael called out and told us to look at the television. The space shuttle Columbia had exploded while it was trying to reenter the earth's atmosphere to land. I said, "I'll never forget we were here at your house when this happened" and Michael (a psychologist) replied, "that phenomena is called 'snapshot memory.'" Of course, the TV in the background was again saying it had no more information to report, even as we stared at the screen, willing it to tell us why this thing had happened.
I can't imagine what it must have been like on November 22, 1963 when Kennedy was shot, or April 30, 1945 when Hitler committed suicide, or April 15, 1912 when the Titanic sank. Overwhelming.
I think for the rest of the day I will turn off the TV and hug my children. Seems like the right thing to do.
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