Dad and the Moon

Today is July 20, 2009 and in just about 20 minutes CST we will remember the 40th anniversary of Neil Armstrong's moonwalk.

I'm proud of Mr. Armstrong. His place in history is assured by the fact that there can be only one first man to take the first step on to the moon.

But on a more personal if less glamorous level I'm proud of my father, Dallas Evans. My dad was one of the thousands of Team Moon people who made Armstrong's walk and all the moonwalks that followed possible. His contribution to the space program was to design experiments to divulge the Moon's many closely guarded secrets.

Dad passed away in October 2003 just before his then-greatest love -- the unmanned mission to Mars with its Martian rover -- saw success. I like to think that wherever he was on THAT momentous day he was feeling a sense of euphoria all over again, just like that day so long ago in late July.

My father was a physicist whose interests in astronomy, meteorology, marine biology, and aviation landed him a job with the newly created NASA. Before the Johnson Space Center complex was built out on the rice fields south of Houston, my dad was already starting to gather data -- what little there was in the early 1960s -- about the atmospheres on the various planets. President Kennedy had given his instruction that America should go to the moon. My dad's first job was to help figure out what astronauts might encounter when they got there.

The Apollo Lunar Surface Experiment Package (ALSEP) consisted of various experiments bundled to fly on each of the lunar trips. My dad was the principal investigator or co-investigator on several of them:

LACE, the Lunar Atmosphere Composition Experiment, flew aboard Apollo 17;

CCG, the Cold Cathode Gauge Experiment (measured the lunar atmosphere), flew aboard Apollos 12, 14, and 15;

SIDE, the Suprathermal Ion Detector Experiment (measured effects of solar winds on the moon), flew aboard Apollos 12, 14, 15.

My dad never seemed to mind the unrelenting work schedule during those heady Apollo days. Everyone was caught up in the dramatic drive to beat the Russians and to live out President Kennedy's dream. Around our house, spaceflight was always the topic on the table. A war was still raging in Vietnam but aside from the nightly news in black and white, it wasn't up for debate. My dad had no time to follow social trends or the latest Hollywood gossip. He was preparing to help put men on the moon, and nothing was more important.

Except me.

I am his only child, and despite his commitment to making history my dad still managed to make time for me. His excitement and awe at the incredible majesty and complexity of outer space was contagious and 40 years later I find myself grasping for the right words to infuse my own children with this same sense of wonderment.

I remember Neil Armstrong's grainy image on our black and white television that glorious day in July. I remember complete silence in the living room as my parents sat transfixed before the screen.

I remember knowing that this had something to do with Daddy's job, but being only three years old I wasn't sure what. Didn't men walk on the moon all the time, I wondered. I'd been hearing talk of spaceflight for as long as I could remember, and this seemed like just another episode of that dialogue.

It wasn't until nearly 30 years later that the real significance of the first moon landing hit me, and in the strangest of ways.

I was sitting in a Luby's cafeteria located not too far from the Johnson Space Center waiting on a girlfriend to come through the food line and pay her bill. I'd found us a table and had sat down to start eating when for reasons unknown my eyes were drawn upward to a series of large photos on the wall in front of me.

There was the famous photograph of Earth -- you know the one that makes our planet look like a beautiful multicolored marble. As I casually studied it, trying to figure out which of the continents I was seeing beneath the cloud cover, I had a revelation.

Suddenly my father's accomplishments and the accomplishments of so many others came sharply into focus.

IF MEN HAD NEVER LEFT THE EARTH, WE WOULDN'T HAVE KNOWN WHAT IT LOOKED LIKE.

The photo of our amazing planet is today ubiquitous, found on everything from flags and tee-shirts to bumper stickers and school notebooks.

But does anyone ever stop to think about HOW we came to have that picture?

Lives were put on hold as scientists like my father devoted countless hours to research, design, development, re-design, troubleshooting and more re-design of everything from experiments to astronaut suits and communication systems. I won't even try to fathom the science behind the rocketry that propelled our men into space.

Lives were lost and risked and risked again. Apollo 1 with its three astronauts incinerated by an oxygen leak during a test run in1967. Apollo 13 with its crew that nearly became lost in space in 1970. Apollo 11 and subsequent flights, all of them accompanied by a long list of "what-ifs" -- what if the men landed but couldn't take off again, what if they took off from the lunar surface but missed their one chance at a rendezvous with the orbiter, what if they made the connection only to have the return capsule burn up on reentry through the Earth's viciously hot atmosphere.

There were only so many contingencies NASA could prepare for. At some point, it was up to fate or luck or God.

Four decades later, we have learned much about spaceflight, the moon, Mars, and other planets and the knowledge is taken for granted. What should we as a people, a nation be doing with all of this. Spaceflight has become commonplace in just a little over 40 years. Have we lost our collective sense of awe? And what do we need to do to get it back? These and similar questions weren't even on the radar in 1969. No one would have believed that only four years later, the Apollo program would be scrubbed.

My dad never took the rocket ride into space like Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, Michael Collins or any of the brave men and, later, women who would follow them, though I suspect he made that trip more than a few times in his mind.

No, on the whole he seemed content to share what he knew as an earthbound man, braving mosquitoes and smothering hot Houston nights to perch atop the trunk of our car in the driveway with binoculars or telescope for a mini-lecture on the worlds beyond our own.

I always loved my dad for who he was. But now, as an adult with children of my own, I can also love him for what he did to further our understanding of the handiwork of God. It's a legacy I'm proud to pass along to the grandchildren Dad never got to know, and I hope that some day, when they have children of their own, they will want to do the same.

The heavens declare the glory of Him Who made all things . . .

Saving sharks one signature at a time

My 7-year-old is currently enamored of sharks. Not the clever billiard players epitomized by Paul Newman (RIP) in the "Color of Money," but the toothy, fearsome, swimming creatures depicted so realistically in "Jaws."

We visited an area aquarium awhile back and for reasons I still don't understand but completely respect, it was love at first sight.

Currently working on a shark-themed project that involves reading, writing, research and original artwork, my daughter has also unearthed the gruesome truth about sharks on the verge of extinction largely because of a practice known as FINNING.

Finning is the cutting off of a shark's fins for use in sharkfin soup, a delicacy in places like China.

The shark -- any species will do -- is captured, mutilated while still alive, and thrown back into the water completely defenseless. Unable to swim, it sinks like a stone to the ocean floor.

Its death may take anywhere from several hours to several days.

Why, my daughter asked indignantly, would anyone want to eat soup so badly that they would do this to a shark?

Why, indeed.

Sadly, she's now starting to wrestle with the same questions that began to bedevil me back when I was about her age. A neighborhood boy caught a water moccasin in a drainage ditch near our street, stretched it out full length upside down on the sidewalk for us all to see and then quickly slit it from head to tail with a knife while the animal was still alive. Inside its belly was a large egg.

I was horrified. Not because a dangerous snake was only feet away from me but because I realized that snake hadn't hurt anyone and yet it was being destroyed for the heck of it.

That initial horror later dulled into a deep and abiding sadness from which I guess I've never fully recovered. But it also spurred me on to various volunteer and paid jobs working with animals as well as conducting letter-writing campaigns to everyone from pharmaceutical companies to elected officials urging them to stop one form or another of animal cruelty.

Somewhere along the way I became a vegetarian although in the spirit of full disclosure I do own a couple pair of leather shoes. Oh, and my childproof furniture is also upholstered in cowhide.

Regardless, some of that old fire stirred again in me last night when my wide-eyed, beautiful child with a heart as big as the world itself set her dainty jaw, furrowed her brow and said, "Finning is just wrong and it has GOT to stop!"

Can one child make a difference? No, but as I learned long ago one child (or one person of any age) multiplied by many more very often does sway opinion.

Type in "finning" online and see how many different campaigns are up and running on behalf of sharks. Lots of kids have jumped on the bandwagon, too, perhaps because children do see things so much more clearly than the grownups. If it's mean, it's wrong. Period.

Those of you who live locally and who know our family, I ask you to take time out to sign Julia's "No Finning" petition the next time you see her. The signatures will be forwarded to the Shark Research Institute in NJ for compilation and mailing to governments worldwide in an effort to outlaw this barbaric practice.

Sharks, as we've learned, are a vital part of the marine ecosystem. They keep various populations in balance so that there is enough food, enough habitat for everyone. Their only enemy is man.

You have a better chance of being struck by lightning than being attacked by a shark.

More than 100 MILLION sharks are killed every year worldwide and roughly 15 various species are on the brink of extinction.

Julia is right. This has got to stop.

Just say no to "finning."

For more information on this issue, visit the websites of Sea Shepherd International, The Cousteau Society, or the Shark Research Institute.

I had better things to do . . .

It's my own fault. I'm the one who sometime back bought a crafts idea book for my seven-year-old daughter who eerily takes after Martha Stewart when it comes to all things creative.

The book, all about "mermaid" things to make, has proven to be a challenge. Its various colorfully illustrated craft projects are tantalizing but tricky for a young child without extensive help from an adult.

Today, the coveted prize was a "seashell purse" made from formed paper, cardboard, and lots and lots of paint and glitter. Mermaids must have glittery purses, I'm told.

Preoccupied with other more pressing things, I'm ashamed to admit I was relieved when I realized we didn't have some of the necessary supplies -- glitter among them -- to make the purse but then my daughter said, "Well, it IS still daylight. Can't we just go to Hobby Lobby?"

Sigh.

To know her is to love her and to love her amazing sense of pragmatism. It was so simple: Don't have it? Just go get it!

So we did, and when we got home it was really time to start supper but the child said earnestly, "Now that we have everything, I think we should at least get started."

Translated, this means, "Momma, the others don't need to eat but I do need this paper and cardboard seashell purse so never mind everyone else, just help me make the darn thing."

Reluctantly -- because I also really wanted to catch a quick peek at my email before I started cooking -- I sat down with the craft book in front of me and carefully analyzed the half million steps necessary for completing the purse.

Did I mention the numerous steps involved?

An hour later we had completed Seashell Purse Phase I and my daughter was satisfied I wasn't going to bail on the remainder of the project. After all, we'd come too far to abandon our effort now.

Did I say "our"?

I meant, "my" as in "MY effort." While it's true the seashell purse is for my daughter and she is the one who initiated the whole production, I am the hired help who sat and traced and cut and shaped paper and then slathered Mod Podge over the whole thing before blanketing it with colored tissue paper.

To be fair, my daughter did tear the tissue paper into pieces for me. Oh, and she did offer helpful hints when it came time to cut the purse out of cardboard.

So with Phase I in the can, I was allowed to take a breather.

Woefully I began to survey all that had remained undone during my pursuit of a purse to rival those of Louis Vuitton.

A pile of unfolded laundry. Dishes in the sink. Trash to be taken out. Books to be reshelved. Clothes to be washed. Rugs to be vacuumed. Checks to write and bills to pay.

Then I glanced over at the counter where earlier I'd been sorting photos of my children from the past several years. My throat tightened as it dawned on me how little the kids in those pictures were -- too little to make seashell purses or read stories of mermaids or use scissors or glue or sequins. And I remembered how especially in those early days of motherhood I eagerly anticipated a future in which I'd sit around a table with my little ones to share in the fun of arts and crafts.

That's when it hit me hard. Today was that day! The future was now! And I nearly blew it off in favor of a nap or yet another load of laundry?

Suddenly, the seashell purse has became the most important goal I have, and I made a point to reassure my daughter we'll finish it up tomorrow.

Tidying up the house after the kids were all in bed, I marvelled at how quickly the future of a few years back was now sitting squarely upon me as the present. Picking scraps of tissue paper off the floor and scraping glue off the kitchen table reminded me that, indeed, I had better things to do today.

Thank God I figured out what they were and did them.

The death of George Tiller

George Tiller was shot to death while serving at his church last week. It's bad enough to be killed in a house of worship, but it's even worse when your death gets lost amid the neverending debate about the ethics of abortion.

Tiller left behind a wife, four children, and some grandchildren. To them, he was Husband, Dad, Grandpa. He wasn't the infamous late-term abortionist whose very existence was a lightning rod for heated dissent.

He wasn't the man who, on one hand, served his Lutheran church faithfully for years while making a living terminating pregnancies well up into the ninth month.

He wasn't the man who, upon being wounded in both arms once before, vowed to continue his practice, cloaking it in the guise of helping women.

He also wasn't the man who singlehandedly had enough clout to bring about an end to society's acceptance of late-term abortion but never saw fit to try.

Some critics of Tiller's critics said that messages of condolence espousing a genuine respect for all life -- even Tiller's -- were insincere and that secretly they were glad he was gone.

I'm not sure "glad" would be the right word. Perhaps relieved?

Tiller committed no provable crime according to the laws of his state or the federal government so I can't support his murder, nor can I agree that depriving his children and grandchildren of his companionship is acceptable.

But Tiller did commit moral crimes, hundreds of them, and I'm not surprised it finally caught up with him.

Some would call it bad karma. Others would eschew such a supernatural law.

Me, I call it going out on a limb one too many times. Eventually it breaks and brings you down with it.

Tiller had choices. He just didn't make a good one.

Aren't they always "good boys"?

One thing I've noticed over the many years of reading news stories that nearly every time someone's son, juvenile or adult, is implicated in a heinous crime their behavior is dismissed by family or friends because, after all, he's a "good boy" and thus incapable of rape, molestation or murder.

And so it goes with four boys down in Florida, all of them middle school students who have been charged as adults for repeated sexual assault of a 13-year-old male classmate in the boys' locker room.

The boys have all admitted to the crime. One of them is 15, the other three are 14.

Even more frustrating than the fact that such young people voluntarily engaged in such horrific behavior is the fact that the assaults were witnessed on several occasions by others who NEVER CAME FORWARD to let school officials know this was happening.

To say that everyone involved -- alleged perpetrators and witnesses -- suffers from an extreme lack of integrity is an understatement. What compels some kids to do these things and others to be complicit by their silence?

The headline to this story would have been enough for me if I hadn't been so curious to see whether the "good boy" card would be pulled.

Sure enough, towards the bottom of the piece, "Defense attorneys told the judge their clients were good students and had never been in trouble before. Attorney Tim Taylor, representing Randall Moye, said his client's family is among the finest in the community.

So what are they saying? Aliens stole these kids' brains and turned them into hateful, vicious monsters?

Once again, someone has confused good grades and admirable lineage with character.