Maybe There Will Be A Tomorrow After All

As a boy, I wanted to be an astronaut.  I knew the details of each stage of the Saturn V.  I had listened to the recordings of the moon landing on LP (that's "vinyl", to those of another generation).  I had assembled a model of the L.E.M. ("Lunar Excursion Module," I might have said dismissively if someone expressed ignorance) using airplane glue and gold-colored foil.  I became irate with Elliot when he chose to remain behind instead of venturing into the universe with E.T.

The failure of 20/20 vision as a teen, and the discovery that the military-style discipline required to actually venture into space was otherwise incompatible with my disposition, led me to write off the possibility of actually being aboard a spacecraft.  The idea of commercial (or non-government) space travel, meanwhile, had been largely relegated to the part of my brain that subsisted on a diet of Heinlein, Asimov, and other geniuses of "science fiction."

Definitely choose avocado-tone appliances, faux-wood
 paneling, and watching your mom smoke and read
the personals instead of intergalactic space travel.  

Last night, I stood in the back yard with my son, listening to the control room chatter on my phone (no wires!) as we watched a short, fiery streak ascend from the horizon. We watched the product of a space company (!) head through the atmosphere, and  saw the flare increase in brilliance as the rocket stages were ignited. I discovered that the spark - long since thought extinguished - remained a glowing ember, ready to be fanned and maybe to ignite the passion of possibility for another generation.