Amongst the billions of Homo sapiens scattered across
this mysterious planet of ours, there are but a few human
princes.
No, not the royal sort whose thin veneer of worth and dignity is
inversely proportional to their lofty, worshipped position and,
even more so, their banal existence.
I’ve met three. The Queen of England, Princess Anne, and the
Duchess of Wales. That would have been Camilla, back in 1993, in
Kenya on an escapist private safari right during the outing of her
affair with Prince Charles and his infamous tawdry musings during a
cell phone conversation. Metaphoric thinking, too, is yet another
royal limitation.
They don’t impress. More said isn’t worth the keystrokes.
This past week juxtaposed the royal and the human prince. The
gob-smacking shenanigans of Prince Harry and the very sad passing
of Neil Armstrong.
I had the fortune of knowing Neil Armstrong. My husband spent a
lot more time with him than I. But our experiences weave the same
golden thread in a tapestry of what Ernest Hemingway called the
best people: the feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the
discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice.
But Neil Armstrong possessed more. He walked the path of modesty
with the clarity of a full moon rising. At lunch one day at the
home of a mutual friend, I asked him if he had a little piece of
moon rock in his home. With a kindly physiognomy that was prelude
to a revealing reply, he softly said: “I don’t. The moon rocks
belong to the people of this country.”
I wanted to crawl under the table in embarrassment for having
even wondered how surreal it must be to have a piece of the
universe.
The shocking moment came one day when he asked my husband to
take him flying in an Aviat Husky. Why on earth did he need my
husband to fly the plane?! A former test pilot, aerospace engineer,
and, need I say, first man to land on the moon and with a computer
that had, as he put it that day, eight times less memory than an
IBM home computer released in 1981? Twelve years after Apollo 11’s
lunar landing!
Yes. And only because he wasn’t checked out in that sort of
plane and with deference to the FAA (which was nowhere in sight)
and respect for the plane’s owner. For all you non-flyers out
there: Could he have flown it legally and flawlessly without my
husband at the helm?
Absolutely.
That was Neil Armstrong. Quiet, unassuming, respectful of
others, “only doing his job.”
If music is the “universal” language that sparks communal
emotions and rejoicing (and it is), then the
Czech composer Antonin Dvorak’s beautiful “Song to the Moon” speaks
volumes about Armstrong. Listen to it here, sung by the
beautiful Renee Fleming, and see if it doesn’t give you those
universal goose-bumps and emotion-laden thoughts of an earth-bound
soul whose actions reflect the heavens.
Based on a Czech fairy tale which ends with Rusalka thanking the
Prince for letting her experience human love and commends his soul
to God.
If Dvorak were alive today, no doubt his “song to the moon” for
Neil would thank this unique human being for that and more. For
flying us to the moon with class, grace, dignity, honesty and, most
importantly, humility unknown to princes.
And for letting the light of that silvery moon serve as a lesson
to us all that the not so small steps of human princes on earth and
moon are indeed great leaps for mankind.
Armstrong certainly had what Tom Wolfe called the right stuff
but in his case it’s the stuff of fairy tales, too.
Rest in the peace and love you left behind, Neil Armstrong. You
will be missed.
