I M Still Starry Eyed After All These Years

I am turning 41 this month, and I grew up watching the birth of the space program on television. That was a great time to grow up, being filled with aspirations of exploring space. In the late ’60s and early ’70s we all wanted to grow up to be astronauts, and suddenly it was actually possible. We were not reading sci-fi novellas or comics about space like our fathers. Finally, we were really there; it was possible, no longer a schoolboy’s dream. We were at our televisions, watching it unfold.

At the same time, another treacherous exploration was unfolding before our eyes—the Vietnam War. Lists of dead, wounded and missing soldiers were a daily feature on the evening news. Horrible images of the war-torn landscape and dead bodies flooded the airwaves. It was televised warfare, and even at that age one can become very skeptical about what life has to offer.

The space program was a wonderful escape from all that. The pictures were amazing and inspiring. They acted as a catalyst, urging us to learn all we could about our galaxy.

I wanted to read about stars and planets and could not get enough. I, like all my friends, was insatiable. We became junior astronomers. It wasn’t just the pictures of a man walking on the moon and kicking space dust that got us excited; it was pictures of anything—planets, constellations or comets, it didn’t matter to us.

There was a feeling of infinite possibility, and goals our parents felt were unattainable became quite the opposite. Progress was everywhere and touched our lives daily. Most of it was born of the research America was doing to reach the moon. Things were starting to move fast, and we were all caught up in the adventure of it wondering what our futures would look like.

But like most of us, as I grew older I learned that life has limitations. I became complacent and forgot how it felt to be a child. My childhood dreams became an annoyance, reminding me of what could have been, instead of providing me solace.

The stunning pictures and stellar achievements of the space program that used to amaze me had lost their luster. They lost their “wow” factor. I had not lost my interest, but it was now subdued at best. Neither the Hubble telescope’s pictures nor the landing of the rover on Mars could recapture the feelings I’d had as a child. I was able to recapture some of the excitement when the first space shuttle was launched, but the 1986 Challenger disaster doused the rekindled flame. But when my wife described my daughter’s expression when she saw the telescope, I remembered how I’d felt at her age. I thought it might be possible for me to smile like that again, too.

Jenna Rose’s birthday was Sept. 29, but because of a hoax e-mail claiming that Mars would appear as large as the moon on the night of Aug. 27, we decided to buy the telescope immediately.

It finally arrived, and after days of mounting excitement I tried to be calm, but in truth I could barely contain myself. I had not been so anxious since my wedding day. At the first sign of dusk, I quickly set up the telescope and focused on the moon. It was amazing to be able to see craters and shadows that escape the naked eye. Then I focused on the first star I saw. Slowly I brought it into focus, and I was overcome with joy. It was no star; it was Jupiter. The planet looked about the size of a pencil eraser, with four pinpoints of light that were its moons surrounding it. I could even make out the dark lines of clouds that circle it.

This wasn’t a picture—this was the real thing. It was hundreds of millions of miles away, but felt close enough to touch. In that moment my universe expanded a hundredfold and my world shrank. That one moment, an epiphany of sorts, was the catalyst in restarting my life at 40 years old. I learned that it is never too late to have dreams, that all the minute things we think of as important are just that—minute. I’ll never walk on the moon or afford the $6 million to take a ride on a private space shuttle, but I can still dream it.

I only hope I can pry my eye away from the lens of my daughter’s birthday present long enough to let her dream a little, too.

title: “I M Still Starry Eyed After All These Years” ShowToc: true date: “2022-12-27” author: “Raphael Parker”

At the same time, another treacherous exploration was unfolding before our eyes–the Vietnam War. Lists of dead, wounded and missing soldiers were a daily feature on the evening news. Horrible images of the war-torn landscape and dead bodies flooded the airwaves. It was televised warfare, and even at that age one can become very skeptical about what life has to offer.

The space program was a wonderful escape from all that. The pictures were amazing and inspiring. They acted as a catalyst, urging us to learn all we could about our galaxy.

I wanted to read about stars and planets and could not get enough. I, like all my friends, was insatiable. We became junior astronomers. It wasn’t just the pictures of a man walking on the moon and kicking space dust that got us excited; it was pictures of anything–planets, constellations or comets, it didn’t matter to us.

Jenna Rose’s birthday was Sept. 29, but because of a hoax e-mail claiming that Mars would appear as large as the moon on the night of Aug. 27, we decided to buy the telescope immediately.

This wasn’t a picture–this was the real thing. It was light-years away, but felt close enough to touch. In that moment my universe expanded a hundredfold and my world shrank. That one moment, an epiphany of sorts, was the catalyst in restarting my life at 40 years old. I learned that it is never too late to have dreams, that all the minute things we think of as important are just that–minute. I’ll never walk on the moon or afford the $6 million to take a ride on a private space shuttle, but I can still dream it.

I only hope I can pry my eye away from the lens of my daughter’s birthday present long enough to let her dream a little, too.