Summer of 1969 I was 2 1/2. Probably working on pooping in the toilet instead of my pants. I do vaguely recall staying up late to watch the moon landing. I think it was Walter Cronkite anchoring the broadcast but that’s strict memory so could be wrong.
Didn’t know until years later, my father, at the time, was working riots here at home with the National Guard. He got the “honor” of being the last line of defense against rioters, which means he manned an old M2 machine gun. So he and his Korean War veteran sergeant basically sat around with thousands of rounds of 50 BMG belted ammo and several barrels hoping they never got the order to flatten the crowd, which was their only job if it came to that. That was his “reward” to not be on the street with the rioters because he had a Mechanical Engineering degree so they gave him a chance at fixing the M2 which was regular Army surplus and didn’t function until he spent some time with it at the machine shop in the factory where he worked during the week. With his knowledge and access to a well equipped machine shop he became the unofficial armorer for his unit, a duty that suited him and he sort of enjoyed for the most part aside from the part where he had to hide out on a rooftop hoping he didn’t have to mass exterminate his neighbors.
I didn’t really know whether to believe those crazy stories until recently when some of the other guys that were there told the same stories from the street level viewpoint shortly before and after his recent death. The commonality was, at least for those guys and my father, they all felt fortunate to the point of feeling a little guilty for pulling their time in the U.S. where they weren’t separated long from their wives and kids instead of shipping off to Vietnam, but then ended up having the specter of being a hairs breadth from having to fire on fellow U.S. citizens.
As we’ve been going through some of Dad’s things related to family history, learned my grandfather on my Dad’s side was a Quaker and therefore a conscientious objector when he was conscripted to WW1. At least at that time it didn’t mean you didn’t serve or run away to another country, it meant for him he was a medic attached to a combat unit. Oddly enough when he came home he brought a sniper rifle, a box of hand grenades, a French bayonet, and a German bayonet.
Grandfather’s uncle’s house was a stop on the Underground Railroad well before that. That house was the one my father grew up in. A fellow from a local museum gave us a good bit of history on that, including a false bottom wagon used for human transport and showed us a copy of a book written by Dad’s grand-uncle explaining from an economic standpoint why slavery was untenable. Apparently the NC legislature made possession and dissemination of the book a crime so not many copies survived. That particular gentleman was a college professor, civil engineer, and not at all politically correct in the antebellum south, which made him quite unpopular with some, particularly with his slave owning relatives who owned large farms in eastern NC. After the Civil War he wrote a book explaining how the Underground Railroad actually worked. That made him quite unpopular with the local KKK. As best I can tell he never gave a crap.
We found WW2 coupon books, some coupons still remaining. All had admonishments to think before you buy and don’t unless you have to. There was a stack of NC scrip and CSA currency with Jefferson Davis’ picture proudly displayed.
I could go on, but probably too long already.
Point being, a lot of things seem pretty crazy with the world right now. Maybe it’s always been crazy.