I remember when the first astronaut walked on the moon. The space program was the first experience in my lifetime where the whole country seemed riveted by the same events. The TV coverage of the various rocket launches leading up to the moon landing, the news about all the aspects of the space adventure, the hero-worship of the astronauts: it built a sense of community, of togetherness as a nation, that made it alive for me.
On the day the first human stepped on the moon, I was . . .
Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “I remember when . . . “
I remember when we respected the office of President of The United States. My parents taught us to campaign diligently for our candidate of choice. After the election was over we should respect the selection of the people. Unlike other countries, we would be given another opportunity in four years.
Being a Fifties Goof
Peggy glared, I ain’t getting circled that’s for cubes.
Cut the gas, don’t have a cow, I was only asking if we were jacketville.
She leant across and breathed, baby, you’re cool, you want to back seat bingo?
As they left, the waitress, muttered, I remember when kids spoke proper.
I remember when I first landed in Hawaii. I was there to spend a week with a friend, but she had not yet arrived at the airport. The humid air and beautiful flowers ushered me from the plane’s jet-way to the baggage claim area. For the first time in years I felt all alone as I sat waiting for my luggage. I was disoriented and unsure…
Those beat up little sneakers were not exactly baby shoes. Jackie’s feet were so big. He wasn’t exactly walking yet but he needed something on those feet.
I remember when I loved a vegetable garden. It was my father’s, then: rows of tomatoes, “sugar corn” and watermelon, two rows of string beans. Those were my favourite, when we gathered ’round the picnic table to snap-snap the ends off hundreds of beans and drop them (plunk!) into my mother’s big dishpans, as the sun set lower into the hushed evening treetops, releasing fireflies to float like living stars above the grass.
I grow my own garden now but don’t care for its vegetables — only the memories they bring of my parents and me and summer evenings, long ago.
I remember when walking into the church gave me an instant, certain feeling of peace. When the scent of aging alter flowers and old incense was all I noticed. Now the sharp, metallic smell of blood overcame all other memories, even though it had long been scrubbed out of the worn tile floors.