The Moon or Bust

WE USED TO GO STARGAZING.

Every Friday night, we would sit in the backyard and marvel at outer space while Grandpa repeatedly hummed the chorus of The Beatles, “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds”. Then every Saturday morning, he shuffled back down the road to return the telescope we borrowed from Ms. McCarthy, until one day she told him that he was more than welcome to hang on to it. To which he said, that he must find a way to repay her and we spent the rest of the weekend decorating store-bought sugar cookies to look like each planet in the solar system, Pluto included.

Ms. McCarthy’s telescope wasn’t very powerful but Grandpa said you can’t expect NASA quality from something you get for free. You could see most stars without it anyways, three thousand of them to be exact; ten thousand with a modest pair of binoculars. You can even see Mercury, Venus and Mars, if you squint real hard, and of course, the moon.

Grandpa always pointed to the moon and said, “The moon landing was fake, ya know?” Told me that millions of people already lived on the moon. The government just didn’t want anyone to know. Said that everyone would want to live there if they could but only the kindest, smartest, most courageous people ever got the chance. “And here we are, just living down on Earth like a bunch of buffoons.”

***

I was the kindest, smartest, most courageous kid you’d meet.

In second grade, I started an astronaut club during recess. Our slogan was “The Moon or Bust!” I heard Grandpa say that once. I never really knew what it meant but it became quite popular between myself and the astronaut club members.

I would tote around the Big Book of Space that Grandpa gave to me for Christmas and a small, blue composition notebook. Everyone in the club had one. We wrote down everything we did and labeled each one with a ‘k’ for kind, an ‘s’ for smart, and a ‘c’ for courageous, just to make sure if the government were ever to question our eligibility, they didn’t forget all the things we did.

March 8: Tied Rebecca’s shoelaces (K)

April 13: Perfected my cursive “Z” (S)

May 1: Gave my Snack Pack to Grace at lunch (K)

May 25: Did my multiplication table in under a minute (S)

I didn’t have many ‘c’s in my notebook. Woodman Elementary School rarely provided the opportunity to be courageous. Although, one time, when Bryce Anderson kicked me in the shins, I stood up and told him that he’d never reach the constellations if he kept kicking towards his own grave. To which he climbed up on the monkey bars, put his palms toward the sky and exclaimed, “Well looks like I’m reaching higher than you!” People like Bryce would never live on the moon.

***

In fifth grade, Mr. Turner asked me to stick around after science class. He told me to stop filling my classmates’ heads with nonsense. Said that I had to stop convincing people that they could live on the moon.

“You couldn’t survive there,” he said. “There is no water or breathable air.”

I ushered him in real close so I could whisper in his ear. “That’s just what they want you to think.” I smirked.

He said it was impossible. To which I told him that if scientists once thought that continents never moved, our planet was the middle of the universe, and that the Earth was flat, couldn’t they be wrong about living on the moon?

“Well who do you think possibly lives there?” He mused with a sarcastic tone and defensive laugh.

I rolled my eyes and one by one listed off the names I had so proudly memorized. “Roald Dahl, Cesar Chavez, everyone from the ‘disastrous’ Challenger Mission, Bob Ross, and obviously Obi Wan, Alec Guinness.”

Mr. Turner stared at me in disbelief. “Lucy, all those people are…”

“Legends. I know,” I assured him. “Only the greats get to live on the moon.” Told him that’s why he’s probably still stuck here on Earth. The school called my grandpa that day.

***

Sophomore year, I got called out of class to go to the main office. Ms. Wilde said that my Grandpa told her to tell me that he was getting ready to go to the moon. I rushed to the hospital as fast as I could.

“I’m fine,” he assured me as soon as I stepped into his room. He was tucked firmly into bed, wires and tubing jutting out from every angle. “I’m prepared,” he chuckled.

“Yeah?” I laughed.

He smiled and said that I would meet him there one day. That I was the kindest, smartest, most courageous girl he’s ever known. That if anyone deserved to make it to the moon, it was me.

“So, how was it determined that you were finally fit for the moon?” I mused. “Are you secretly Bob Ross? How come you never showed me the joy of painting?!” Grandpa laughed. He laughed until he coughed so much that his heart rate skyrocketed and a nurse came rushing in.

“Are you trying to get me there faster?” Grandpa teased. “You just want Ms. McCarthy’s telescope all to yourself.”

I smiled and told him that I worked hard for that telescope. He said it was meant for me anyways. That he was always destined for the moon but stuck around just for me.

The nurse pulled me aside and said he’d have to use an oxygen tank from now on. I looked back at Grandpa laying helplessly in bed, staring out at the night sky.

“That’s alright,” I said, “we’ll just call it rocket fuel.”

***

Senior year, they called me in to collect the rest of his things, to pick the glow in the dark stars off of the hospital room walls and take down the space mobile I got for him at the Smithsonian. He wouldn’t need them.

I collected the packets of freeze-dried ice cream that I knew he would never eat, the Big Book of Space I lent him to look at when I wasn’t around, my composition book of kind, smart, and courageous things, and Ms. McCarthy’s telescope. This felt like the most courageous thing I’d done so far.

I sat down on the hospital bed with the box at my side, pulled out my old astronaut club notebook, ready to mark this one last thing in that small, blue composition book. I turned to the very last page and the header reads “Grandpa” and below in large, scribbled font it says:

July 20: Made it to the moon