I was six years old in 1975. I didn’t know much about the world. I did not know, nor did I care, who was President. I didn’t know that Richard “I’m not a crook” Nixon had recently resigned. I didn’t know that his replacement, some guy named Ford, had fallen down the steps while leaving Air Force One and put a dramatic coda on that whole sordid business. But I did know one thing. Summers were made for playing outside, getting drinks from hoses, and helping Grandma weed the garden. That’s what the summer of 1975 was for me.
At least that’s what it was until July. For a few days that month my attention strayed from exploring the catacombs of the neighbor’s hedges and turned to a marvelous event that was taking place a million billion trillion (numbers didn’t mean much to me then either) miles away. And I got to see it on television. Our astronauts, which is to say United States astronauts, were going to meet up with some Russian astronauts in space. I couldn’t pronounce the name of Soyuz, the Russian craft, but I knew what it was when I heard it or saw it written. They were going to have their spacecraft meet up, attach themselves to each other, then open up a door, crawl through, and shake hands. It was going to be awesome.
And it was awesome, even on the ancient television that was as big as a refrigerator and was only color part of the time when the signal came in good. I sat there in my living room, outdoors forgotten, my mind locked around the fantastical concept of people being shot up into space and then meeting each other. I had trouble meeting neighborhood kids who lived just a few houses away. They were so foreign and scary, but if these guys in space suits could do THAT, well … maybe I’d just walk up to one of those kids’ doors and introduce myself.
In other words, I was inspired. Our country, my country, put its resources and energy into accomplishing a goal that just a decade before was highly questionable. What’s more, we did this in cooperation with our sworn enemies. I didn’t know much about the world at six, but besides knowing what summers were for, I knew that Russians were the bad guys and they might kill us all one day with their bombs. Maybe, I thought while sitting there watching all this happen, if we could get along well enough to do this, we could get along well enough to do a lot of things. Continue reading We Can Do Better

