Space, the Moon, and I

14 02 2010

This article makes me kind of happy:

I learned to read at age three, sitting in my father’s lap. He would hold me and we would read comic books. About age five I began using the public library. I exhausted their supply of books on earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes, and tornadoes. Then I went on to dinosaurs and archaeology in general. I still remember how enthralled I was by Roy Chapman Andrews’ chronicles of his adventures in China and other parts of the far East exploring for fossils.

Next came a novel entitled “Danger, Dinosaurs!” by Richard Marsten. It was science fiction, and I was hooked. All through my extreme youth I read about space exploration and other planets, solar systems, even other galaxies. The universe was mine, all between the covers of a book.


 And now the International Space Station is really beginning to take shape. I know I am too old to go into space, but oh how I would love to visit the space station. Robert A. Heinlein wrote a story, “The Man Who Owned the Moon” about a millionaire who felt the same way I feel, and was able to make it to the moon to die. How glorious it would be to view the Earth from the Moon. And Mars, ai-ya, to stand on the red sand of the planet Mars, well, that would be indescribable.

Alas, I cannot and will not, but at least I can live vicariously and read about the astronauts on the internet, on the effing internet, hoo, real science no-longer-fiction at the tips of my fingers—I can read about the space station as I read about Roy Chapman Andrews 57 years ago. I should call someone on my cell phone, cell phone, ha!, on my little handheld computer, but, it’s still too early in the day.

Holy Moley Addendum: or maybe, Addendum: Holy Moley. I was just toodling around the web and discovered that Richard Marsten was a pen name for Evan Hunter. Crikey, that means the book might even have been well-written. But the few remaining Winston Science Fiction Series copies are too rich for my blood. Oh I long to go once more, dinosaur hunting in a time machine. Wait, I can do that with Ray Bradbury, too.