May 5, 2011. To most people the day will pass without much notice unless they’re of Mexican heritage. Cinco de Mayo is a big deal to them. The fifth of May should be a big deal to Americans, too, but most of us are too young to remember and a lot of us who were around then have forgotten.
It had been only three and a half years since the Russians surprised us by putting the first man-made satellite, Sputnik, in space. On April 12, 1961, they did it again by sending the first human, Yuri Gagarin, into orbit.
On May 5 it was our turn. More specifically, it was Alan B. Shepard’s turn. We, as fellow Americans, were riding along vicariously. The Russians’ rocket launches occurred in extreme secrecy and were announced to the world only if successful. Our attempt would be broadcast on live television and radio. Shepard, strapped into a space capsule he named Freedom 7, which would be launched atop a Redstone rocket, would succeed or fail in front of the whole world. America’s nascent space program was riding on this mission.
To this seventh-grader at St. Sabina School on the South Side of Chicago, Room 32 was Mission Control on that sunny, warm Spring morning. The only difference was that half the room was full of girls and there was a nun. The boys looked like anyone in the control room: crew cuts or flat tops, white shirts, dark pants, dark ties. Some of us even had pocket protectors. For years we’d watched Sunday morning reruns of Flash Gordon movies and Buck Rogers TV shows. This was the real deal.
We didn’t have a TV but the principal announced that she would begin playing the radio coverage over the PA and reminded us to remember the day for the rest of our lives. She also requested (in Catholic school any request from a nun was considered an order) that prayers be offered for the safe journey of our astronaut.
Then the countdown crackled through the wooden box above the blackboard. “Ten...nine...eight”. With every second, the tension mounted. “Four...three...two”. Our collective breath was held. “One...zero...ignition...” And, after what seemed an eternity, “liftoff.”
For the next 15 minutes and 22 seconds we listened to snippets of conversation between Shepard and Mission Control, hanging on every word but not really understanding much of it. Our room, indeed the whole school, was never as quiet as during those few minutes.
Then, splashdown in the Atlantic. When Shepard announced that he was safely back on Earth, the school erupted. Girls cried and hugged, boys shook hands and slapped backs. Finally, Sister got everyone calmed down and had us sing a hymn written hundreds of years before but nonetheless perfect for a day when someone would slip the surly bonds of Mother Earth and safely return. I never forgot it.
Now thank we all our God with heart and hands and voices,
Whom wondrous things has done, in whom this world rejoices.
Who from our mother’s arms has sent us on our way
With countless acts of love and still in ours today.
In the ensuing years we’ve watched as Americans walked on the moon, Lt. Colonel Shepard among them. We’ve seen the triumphs and tragedies of the shuttle program. I have had the privilege of witnessing two shuttle launches in person. But nothing compares to that first time we went into space on that sunny Spring morning fifty years ago.
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