Ever since we all got up in what felt like the middle of the night to watch it (though I see now it was only 11 pm!), Chip’s father always basked in the reflected glory of the moon landing, because his birthday was the next day. We were living in Baltimore; Chip was in the army learning how to be a spy; but we were at his parents’ house to celebrate the birthday.
Those fuzzy images descending the ladder were, in retrospect, the end of Camelot. The next day we went back to our lives that the army had disrupted, heading, though we didn’t know it yet, to the war in Vietnam.