So, I’m re-writing this post. Bluehost, the web-hosting company I use, went down for two days because of a bad server database. They lost my previous post on Neil Armstrong, as well as some other posts. They told me they are very sorry. I think I need to find a new web-hosting site.
“Armstrong?” some people say upon learning my last name is Armstrong. “You related to Neil Armstrong?”
“Yes.” I say, lying. They ask it jokingly, with a sly grin that doesn’t expect me to say, “Why yes. I am. Uncle Neil. He’s very grouchy.”
Though people rarely believe such tomfoolery, sometimes they have a conflicted twitch in their lips and ask, “Really?”
“Yes, would you like me to call him?”
Usually, I take the joke way too far.
My dad, it turns out, got Neil’s autograph when he was thirteen. The whole Apollo crew was visiting his town and his school got to see them all on the an airport runway, separated from by a rope. My dad, being an Armstrong, crossed the un-crossable rope and ran up to the crew to ask them to sign his photo of the astronauts.
Neil, not wanting to seem like a total jerk who denies a kid an autograph, reluctantly signed. My dad tried to get the rest of the crew to sign, but was told by security very firmly, “You need to leave immediately.”
His teachers were appalled. Apollo’d if you will.
You won’t?
Fine.
But you know what? I bet all those kids who didn’t jump the fence are sorry now. My dad just sold that autograph on eBay for enough to pay for a trip to DC with two of my siblings. There’s something beautiful in that. I’m not sure where, but it’s there. The signature of like, the greatest traveler of all time, is paying for my family’s trip.
So, while the world remembers Neil Armstrong, I hope people don’t ever forget him. I hope when they hear my last name they still ask me if I am related to him so that I can white lie to them for my own amusement.
Neil wasn’t the only person to die lately. My little brother Isaac’s toad was found lying upside down, motionless in his Tupperware prison.
Isaac had forgotten that toads need water. His neglect reminds me why they don’t let ten-year-olds live on their own. What other things might Isaac forget if her were in complete control of his destiny? Forgetting to brush his teeth is a given, but he could feasibly forget that he also needs water.
I wasn’t too devastated to hear of the toad’s demise, because, well, it’s just a stupid toad. But I did share in some of the responsibility. It was I who captured the toad as a gift for Isaac when we were out on a two-day Kayak trip down a 30-mile stretch of the Missouri River.
The trip was good—filled with naps and innovation—but for the hail and lighting. And the fact that a storm stole one of the kayaks in the night. We had to run about a mile downstream and find it.
Naps:
Innovation:
Our runaway kayak made me think of Moses. What was his mother thinking? Sending a baby in a basket down a river? Sure, according to the story, it worked out. But what would have happened if the basket had just like, washed onto the shore a few miles downstream? Or sunk. If you ask me, Moses’ mother acted pretty reckless. You can’t just put your baby in a basket and send it downstream. Completely unacceptable.
Want some good news?
The toad didn’t die! He only seemed dead. My mom—who always holds out hope—put him in a dish of water. The water not only brought him back to life, it gave him the strength to breakout of his Tupperware prison!
Everyone I’ve told this story too finds it very inspiring and extremely American. The toad took destiny into his little toad hands. He’ll probably get run-over by a car, since he’s spent his whole life by the river and has no idea what a toad needs to do to get by in the city, but hey, he’s free and alive, and that’s beautiful.
