The voice of parents is the voice of gods,
for to their children they are heaven's lieutenants. --Shakespeare
 My father died the spring before a man
walked on the moon. Only rarely
would he emulate
his parents' Russian tongue; he
called his Austin-Healy
the Sputnik, never missed an excruciating hour
of televised shots of waters where a splashdown might
eventually occur. Approach editor- he'd assault us
with Navy plane tales, crucial aviational lore.
We were tutored on Shepard & Glenn memorabilia;
mucilage and fuselage at a tender age.
 August,
I took my son to Kitty Hawk where
we watched hang-gliders sail. Coincidence flew us to the Smithsonian the same
week. He'd
heard of Orville & Wilber, not
of Lucky Lindy, much less Pioneer or Mariner. Standing before the exhibit of Apollo
and Soyuz,
I told him of the visit between the astronauts
and cosmonauts. I reminded him that his grandfather and mine were Russian.
Then I noted the date of the plaque- the visit took place
the summer before my son was born. I could have touched
my father when the Cronkite video said, That's the way it is;
but the spring before a man walked on the moon
he was gone.
John and In
Willoughby Spit
R K's Diner |
Aviation Mech
1985 The Smithsonian
1987 Outer Banks, NC
from
The Litotes Collection
ro@rkpuma.com |
