The Lunar Module Eagle landed on the moon’s surface at 4:17 p.m. EDT with, if I can believe what I read, less than thirty seconds of fuel remaining. The moon walk took place six hours later.
"…one small step for (a) man,
one giant leap for mankind."
-Neil Armstrong
I was at girl scout camp in Pennsylvania at the time. We hiked up the hill from the tent sites to the activity center where the counselors had set up a television and we watched the events unfold. ‘Twas exciting. When I returned home from camp, I learned my dad had named our new beagle puppy ‘Moon Shot Duke’. The thought still makes me smile.
I’ve held a special place in my heart for the ‘moon’ ever since.
What are your memories from when Apollo 11 landed on the moon’s surface?
Continue reading for an excerpt from Just Once in a Verra Blue Moon. And then, please share in the comments your memories from the Apollo 11 moon landing. If you were too young or not born at the time, share your thoughts on what you know of the event.
Just Once in a Verra Blue Moon…
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Blue
Ridge Mountains, near the Village of Anderson Creek
Finn inhaled deeply. His lungs
filled with fresh mountain air. For the first time in months, he was free of
fawning women. Free of the awkward position they put him in.
Patrick’s sword sliced past his
face, drawing him from his thoughts. Rain streamed over his bare chest, mixing
with sweat. He needed to pay attention. If he weren’t more careful, he’d do a
face-plant in the mud.
“You fight like a lass, MacIntyre,”
Patrick taunted.
“Hilt is slippery.” Finn cursed
under his breath and sought a better grip.
“You must learn to fight under
every circumstance. That includes rain. Could save your miserable life
someday.”
Grunting, Finn barely ducked the
next assault.
Patrick pulled back. “Enough!” He
dropped the point of his claymore to the ground and scowled. “’Tis obvious you
are not paying attention.”
Trying to catch his breath, Finn
gulped air. He glared at his cousin-in-law. “This is supposed to be just for
fun.”
“Ach, then. You must try harder to
have fun, lad.” Humor lit Patrick’s blue eyes, and he unloosed the leather
strip holding back his long chestnut hair. Patrick MacLachlan was a primitive
man; to him a workout with the large two-handed sword was child’s play. “At
times I forget we live in a modern world.”
Finn shook his head. “You are my fiercest opponent.”
Patrick laughed and placed a hand
on Finn’s wet shoulder. “Come. The bairns
are at the inn for Rory’s Thursday morning story time. Let us go and warm
ourselves by the fire and listen to the old Highlander tell his tales.”
Finn yanked on a soaked t-shirt and
followed Patrick across the wet lawn.
About twenty-five eagerly waiting
children sat on the plush carpet in the parlor of the Whispering Pines Inn while gossiping moms relaxed on overstuffed
floral sofas. A few dads stood nearby, appearing disinterested. Finn knew
better. Everyone loved hearing Rory’s stories.
The crackling fire brought
much-needed warmth to the dreary mountain morning. Finn joined Patrick at the
hearth, hoping his clothes would dry.
Conversation ended when Rory
MacNaughton entered from the rear door, his carved walking stick at his side.
The elderly gentleman wore dress slacks, a brown tweed jacket with leather
patches at the elbows, and a tam covering his white hair. He greeted
individuals as he crossed the room and eased onto the tall stool at the center
of the parlor. With an age-spotted hand, he motioned for his audience to move
closer.
Alert eyes sparkling, Rory glanced
at Finn and grinned. One of the men standing nearby snickered. Finn groaned,
sure he knew the yarn the storyteller would regale them with.
Taking a deep breath, Rory began…
“The Sithichean, the faeries of the ancient Highlands, had a special
affinity for moonstones. Enamored by the pale, lustrous, blue color resembling
that of moonlight, they found the best of these unique stones on the shores of
their sensuous faerie paradise Tir-nan-Óg—land
o’ heart’s desire—having washed ashore on the tides when the sun god and moon
maiden were in a particular heavenly harmony.”
Rory leaned forward. “Ye ken this
miraculous occurrence happens only once in three, seven-year cycles of the
moon…”
He held up an index finger. “Just
once in a verra blue moon,” he whispered.
A hush fell across the parlor.
“Handfuls of these precious stones
belonged to a beautiful flame-haired faerie with eyes the color and brightness
of the most costly emeralds.”
“Caitrina?” a precocious little
girl, with red curls and freckles sprinkled across her nose, whispered. Her
blond-haired friend giggled, and Rory smiled at the pair.
“She bestowed upon the moonstones
magical powers, gifting them to deserving mortals. Some of these charmed stones
had the ability to reunite lost lovers. Others gave the bearer the gift of
second sight. One especially large gemstone she forged into the hilt of a
magnificent Highland claymore, and with a kiss enchanted it with extraordinary
power.”
His eyes wide, a boy in front
pointed at Finn.
Finn glanced down. He must be a
sight, his soaked shirt clinging to his chest and his wet kilt slung low on his
hips. He’d grown his hair long and now the knotty, wet strands hung around his
shoulders in disarray. Beside him, his sheathed sword leaned against the stone
of the fireplace, the large moonstone in its cross-section plain to see.
Rory chuckled, locking gazes with
him. With tight lips, Finn shook his head no.
He didn’t want the kids to think his sword was the one of which Rory spoke.
“Over the ages, the sword brought
many a worthy warrior fame and fortune. That was until the day an evil, dark
power used it.” Rory’s voice rose and his pace quickened. “This could not be
borne. With green eyes shooting flames of fire, the one who fashioned the
splendid weapon cast it far away to vanish in the Sands of Time.”
The storyteller lowered his voice
an octave and slowed his speech. “There are those who believe the lost sword of
the fae has been found.”
Finn refused to listen to more of
the man’s fantasy. He signaled to Patrick he was leaving.
Patrick followed him into the
foyer. “Why the rush, lad?”
“My claymore doesn’t have
supernatural powers. It’s just an antique sword.”
“Ach, well. Dinnae take offense.
Rory means nae insult. He merely wishes for the bairns to believe in a wee bit of magic. Nae harm in that.”
~Dawn Marie
