"As primitive as song."
On July 20, 1969 I was in my childhood home in Bellevue Washington, a block above Lake Sammamish. In TV Guide that week, all the columns for all the TV stations were blank for several days running, because every channel was showing the same thing: 24-hour-a-day coverage of Apollo 11. I was 9; I remember, halfway through the moon walk, going outside and riding around my neighborhood on my bike, and congregating in the middle of the street with several other boys from the neighborhood, who were also out riding their bikes. We talked in hushed tones and looked up at the blue sky, searching for the moon. Even though we couldn't see it, the sky was an utterly different sky than it had been a few hours before. And then we all headed back to our separate homes, to watch the second half of the moonwalk. But there was a hush there among us, for a few moments; we couldn't take our eyes off the empty sky.