Home Again

Milford, Michigan

Once or twice a year, I head back to Michigan.  Holidays with family, weddings of friends, there's never a shortage of reasons.  I often joke that "you can never go home again."  Things are different now. There are new buildings, different stores, fewer friends around--it's changed.  It's a different place than what you used to call home, and so you can't "go home" any more than you can go back in time.

But I've been spending a lot of time in Michigan in the last year.  More than in the last several years combined.  Sometimes in familiar places, sometimes in new places.  But it's all, on some level, familiar.  There's a unique atmosphere to it, a type of people, an aesthetic to the landscape, that is unmistakably...home?  Not my current home.  But absolutely where I come from.

I grew up in a town called Milford.  There's a Milford in almost every state, and with a few exceptions, they're all variations on the same theme.  About an hour or so from some large city, there's a little town on a river.  The town itself holds a few to several thousand people, but the outlying farms and nearby even smaller towns contribute to the feel of the population as well.  There's one major industry in or near the town.  The "downtown" area on Main Street consists of a couple blocks, and includes a bakery, the local paper, a jeweler, a toy store, and the rest of the collection of restaurants and small shops not yet put out of business by the brand new WalMart two towns over.  The folks who live there pride themselves on their town's obscure--but interesting--history, and on knowing that they live in a great place to raise kids.  They all not-so-secretly believe they are the real town Garrison Keillor talks about every week, "where the women are strong, the men are good looking, and the children are above average."

My Milford was my childhood Mayberry.  I rode my bike with a friend down to the bridge over the river where we'd spend the afternoon with half-hearted fishing lines in the water talking comic books.  We built tree forts in the woods and held our breath walking past the cemetery.  I walked down the street to neighbors near and far saying hello.  My high school's football field on Friday night was the place to be--even if the team hardly ever won.

My Milford has changed a lot in the intervening years.  The population has boomed as the outskirts of Detroit have grown into suburbs of their own, and suburbs of suburbs now reach all the way out to my little town.  The cute little stores are now high-end boutiques.  They even repealed an age-old law against buildings more than two stories tall and have built a few that are (gasp!) three and four stories tall.  Friends and family have moved away.  What once was the kind of place you looked for to live the small-town life is now a trendy spot to go out for dinner.

And yet there is a pull.  Those little familiarities, that remind you why, though you'd never admit it, you did look back over your shoulder as you left.  The way you know where you're going even though it's been ages since you've gone there.  The bend in the road you anticipate out of habit.  The surprising recollection of some neighborhood landmark that was of no significance twenty years ago when you passed it every day, yet you now start at the tiniest thrill of recognition.

It pulls at you gently, almost imperceptibly.  You effortlessly slip into a routine that you didn't realize you still remembered.  The place lulls you in, reminds you of its beauty, discretely hides its faults. Tugs at the nostalgia-laden heartstrings like a conversation with an old friend.  Let's catch up.  How've you been?  You've really changed.  You're exactly the same.

Just when you think that maybe you can go home again, you begin to realize that this place has grown up, too.  Where you once rode your bike to the Dime & Cent store for comic books and plastic swords. you now drive over to shop for locally-made home furnishings.  The ice cream parlor with the high counter and arcade video games has become a restaurant to meet old friends and reminisce.  Other friends prefer the popular new restaurant down the street, though you can't help but see it as the old pizza joint where you worked your first job at sixteen.

Nostalgia and the realization of change are, by definition, at odds.  Nowhere does that seem more true than when looking at your own home--not where you live now, but where you come from.  I can't go home again, not really, but I can visit it in stories, photo albums, and all those happy childhood memories.

Cutting the Cable

Growing up, our house had cable TV for approximately three months. It was while we were living in an "in-between" apartment while the place we were moving to was not yet ready, and it happened to be cable-ready (which was a big deal in those days). So we had a little cable box on the top of our TV. And with it, I watched "Ren and Stimpy" hour after hour. That's about it.

As a kid, I barely remember anyone having cable TV. In the olden days (oh no, I'm turning into one of those) our TV had rabbit-ear antennae that just barely picked up five or six channels. The major networks were on the VHF* dial; CBS on channel 2, NBC on channel 4, and ABC on channel 7. On the UHF dial were channels 20, 50, and on a clear day, 62. I don't remember too much about those channels, except that Star Trek was on one of them. And really, what else mattered?

Once the 90's hit, it seemed cable was everywhere--or at least, everywhere in my friends' houses. The number of channels even on broadcast TV exploded, merged, bought each other, and added off-shoot channels. Somewhere in there was the short period of "Ren and Stimpy" mentioned earlier, and that was exciting. Literally tens of channels! But when it was back to broadcast TV afterward, I didn't really feel like I was missing anything.

In college, my freshman dorm room had the campus cable. My room-mate brought a TV, and we hooked it up, and watched it once. One movie, about an hour and a half. I later moved off-campus, and though I had a TV, I had neither cable or rabbit-ears, so it was in practice only for watching movies and sitting drinks upon. Besides, the internet was the only necessary source of news and entertainment by then.

Moving to NYC meant no television at all for years. Not that it was unavailable, mostly because I was busy, a poor grad student, and had better things to do. Not until I moved into 90 West, and even then only because my room-mate had already had one, and it was hooked up to cable. As silly as it sounds, I was surprised at the sheer volume of content available. Hundreds of channels! So many, in fact, that I didn't watch any of them. Instead, I signed up for Netflix.

But ever since, I've had cable. Why? Because it came with internet access, or there was some promotional deal, or something convinced me that it'd be more effort to get rid of it than to keep it. But we don't really watch anything. Sure, there are some good shows on these days, but they're also on Netflix, Hulu, or even the websites of the TV networks themselves. We end up turning on the ol' tube (which is funny, because I haven't had a TV with a cathode ray tube since college) whenever we have nothing better to do. This invariably means we end up watching HGTV (or worse, "How Clean is Your House") until we can no longer stand it.

So, we cut the cable. There are tons of people "cutting the cable" these days, in protest to the rising prices or the monopolies of most cable providers, or as a statement that the internet provides the same content for less. We certainly aren't going to miss the higher bills, and we certainly will get whatever shows we really want to watch through the internet. But mostly, we're getting rid of it just because we don't watch.  Or at least, we're ashamed of what we do watch.

And if our home is a little quieter for it, well, that's hardly anything to complain about.


* For those who may not remember, back in the day TV was an analog phenomenon, with VHF (Very High Frequency) and UHF (Ultra High Frequency) defining two ranges of radio frequency used to broadcast television signals. I remember being incredibly excited at the discovery that TV and radio were in effect the same thing. I used to try and impress my friends by tuning the analog car radio tuner all the way down to the bottom of the FM range, where you could sometimes pick up the audio from the TV stations. To my great surprise, this never seemed to impress them.

3...2...1...Liftoff!

STS-132: Atlantis lifts off for the last time
Ben Cooper, Launch Photography

It was dark when we woke up.  Dark because the shades were drawn, and we had gotten to our hotel so late we knew we wouldn't be getting much sleep.  Also because it was before dawn.  Come to think of it, that's probably the main reason.

Our tickets to Kennedy Space Center said we had to arrive by 9am.  Expecting a lot of traffic, we left around 6am to make the 1-hour (on a good day) trip due east from Orlando to Cape Canaveral.  As we drove through the marshland to the coast, the sun rose ahead of us, and traffic was no concern at all.  We arrived at KSC around 7am, not really sure what we were going to do all day, but excited for the big moment that would come at 2:19pm.

I had never been to KSC before, though even I was surprised at just how much I enjoyed our day there.  In the early morning light, we walked among the towering converted missiles of the early space program in the Rocket Garden.  We saw the stages of early spaceflight become the modern shuttle program.  We played in Mercury and Apollo capsules.  We rode a shuttle launch simulator ride.  And all of this before breakfast.

As the morning continued, we found ourselves more and more drawn to one of the lawns where would eventually view the launch.  Although we did not have a clear view of the launchpad itself, there were large screens set up with live video feeds of the pad and activity around the Atlantis.  Speakers throughout the grounds were tuned to listen in on communications between Mission Control, Launch Control, and the vehicle itself.  Near one of the screens, a small stage was set up.  Here one of NASA's extremely knowledgeable Communications Officers would describe in detail what was happening as the external fuel tank (the large orange tank underneath the shuttle) was filled with liquid oxygen and hydrogen.  We could see the astronauts putting their suits on, riding up the shuttle, and being strapped in.

What was more, two astronauts took the stage as well.  They talked not only about their experiences in space, but what was happening right now with the crew of STS-132.  What they were thinking and feeling as they were strapped into the most complex machine mankind has ever built.  What we should expect to see as the launch neared, and began.  We knew the astronaut's nicknames, and how they earned them.  We knew how they chose their meals for their time in space.  We knew what they were carrying to the International Space Station.  The effect of all of this was two-fold.  For people like me, who had dreamed of being there for as long as they could remember, we felt so much more a part of the launch.  We were invested in it emotionally as well as intellectually.  For those like Lynn, who did not have the decades of background knowledge in spaceflight, it brought them into that community as well.  As the countdown clock ticked lower and lower, everyone in attendance became more than spectators, we became a community of supporters.

With about a half hour before the launch, things began moving quickly.  We heard the final checks being performed and confirmed over the radio.  A helicopter swept back and forth over the Cape checking to make sure the airspace was clear.

At nine minutes, we all stood up.  The walkway to the shuttle was retracted.  A crowd of thousands held their breath.

Two minutes.  We cheered as the oxygen tank cap swung away from the top of the large orange fuel tank.  This is the last piece of the launch tower attached the shuttle, the astronauts call it the "parking break."  The astronauts closed their helmet visors.

One minute to go, all systems check, power and communications are internal to the vehical.  Houston checks in with Launch Control.  Everything's ready.

Thirty seconds: Ground Launch Sequnce starts

Ten seconds: On our screen, we see a close up of the main engines.  Sparks begin to fly, these will burn up any excess hydrogen fuel in the area so there are no uncontrolled explosions.

Six seconds: Main engines start.  The flames are so hot they are clear and blue, and focused into tight cones behind the engines.  The shuttle rocks forward in reaction to the engines firing.

One second: The shuttle rocks back.

Zero: The white Solid Rocket Boosters on either side of the fuel tank ignite.  Smoke billows out to the side.  The shuttle lifts off the pad.  It's the most effortless movement, the one thing this incredible machine was designed to do exceedingly well.  And it does.  It rises smoothly and quickly straight up, building a pillar of smoke beneath it.

At this, we all look to the east, waiting for the shuttle to come into view.  It was the longest ten seconds I've ever experienced.  Ten seconds of anticipation to see, with my own eyes, what I'd watched so many times on TV and computer screens.  My life paused for ten seconds.

Ben Cooper, Launch Photography

And then it came over the trees.  Even seven miles away, it was larger than I expected.  And it was such a clear day, we could see every detail.  Such grace.  And it was so bright.  So bright it startled me.  So bright it moved me.  As if the rocket boosters were so powerful they had torn a hole of the sky behind them, and the sun was shining through.

Thirty seconds later, the wall of sound finally reached us.

We watched Atlantis gracefully roll over, putting the shuttle itself at the bottom of the arc it would take up into the sky.  I was five years old again, in my living room in Detroit.  I had my metal toy shuttle pressed against the TV screen, lining it up with the trail of smoke from the real shuttle.  My cheeks were puffed out from the growling noise I made and imagined the real rocket engines were making.  I was in that little toy shuttle, and I was going somewhere I'd never been before.  My thoughts, and my spirits, and my dreams went into that real shuttle on this day.  They rose with Atlantis and her crew to a new place, a new adventure.  They were unstoppable.

About two minutes after lift-off, Atlantis had one more final farewell for those us on the ground.  The sky was so clear, we saw the solid rocket boosters reach the end of their fuel, and jettison from the sides of the shuttle.  They fell off to each side, and their flames went out.  They began to fall, and eventually parachute down to the ocean.

Our eyes back to the large screen on the lawn, we watched from the external cameras attached to the external fuel tank.  We saw the horizon of the Earth begin to curve, with the darkness of space beginning to surround it.  Finally, eight minutes after launch, the external tank detached from the shuttle.  Another cheer went up from the crowd.  Atlantis was in space.  We watched as the cameras on the tank continued to transmit, Atlantis seemed to float away.  We could see the underside of the shuttle sliding easily out of view as the cameras finally stopped.

Looking around us on the ground was like waking up from an incredible dream.  I had to remember where I was, how I got there.  Lynn squeezed my hand, and I was happy.  Heading back to Orlando took nearly three and a half hours with the traffic.  Lynn was driving the first shift, and I fell asleep in the passenger seat.  I dreamed.  I dreamed the same dream as moments before, and all those years ago.

Ad Astra!

Atlantis awaits rollout in the VAB - 4/19/10
Ben Cooper, Launch Photography

When I was very young, being an astronaut when I grew up was a foregone conclusion.  Well, after I got over my dinosaur paleontologist kick, at least.  I jumped into science, physics, astronomy, and loved it.  As I grew up, my interests shifted a bit, but I still stayed with the theme.  Astrophysics, as I studied in college and grad school, was everything about space except actually getting there.  (Some day I'll be rich enough for one of those private trips above the atmosphere.)  Still, I watched every launch I could on TV and later on the internet.

There's something so exhilarating about watching a rocket or a shuttle lift off into the sky.  The power, the rumbling, the fire, the grace, the beauty, and finally the awe.  It's unlike any other man-made marvel and reaches right down into us, tapping that sense of wonder and exploration.  Suddenly we're all back with our space helmets and pillow-fort starships, and everything is possible.

I've never seen it in person.

In all my years, and all my trips down to Orlando, I've never been able to line anything up with a launch.  I've been stuck running to a TV, or watching the NASA coverage on their web site.  Sometimes, though I'll never admit in person, I watch just the launch scene from the movie Apollo 13.  Sometimes I watch it twice.

With the shuttle fleet retiring this year, I came to the startling realization that I may never see a launch if I didn't act quickly.  So I checked the schedule, cleared a couple days from work, and bought plane tickets for Lynn and I to head down for the launch of STS-132, the final flight of the shuttle Atlantis.

Since then, I've been following the shuttle's progress from the Orbiter Processing Facility (OPF) to the Vehical Assembly Building (VAB), and finally out to the launch pad. NASA's shuttle page has great coverage of the details, but I've been really enjoying Ben Cooper's Launch Photography site. Ben is a NASA photographer and has amazing access to the shuttle for pictures. Here's a whole series on Atlantis being lifted up and rotated in the VAB so they can attach the fuel tank and rocket boosters. These are rare, and awesome, pictures.

Today, Atlantis is sitting at launch pad 39A, where in two weeks' time it will lift off on its final mission. And I'll be there to see it in person. With my space helmet. Everything is possible.

Atlantis rolls out to launch pad 39A - 4/21/10
Ben Cooper, Launch Photography

The Pen is Mightier

When I was young, I always knew how important something was by what pen my mother used to sign her name.  If it was a permission slip for school, any bic lying around would do.  But when she signed something important, she pulled a red leather sleeve from her purse.  Out of that sleeve came the most beautiful gold Cross pen.  This was important, this signature meant something, it needed the appropriate pen.

When I graduated high school, I had a diploma, wore a cap and gown, and celebrated with friends.  But when my mother gave me my own gold Cross pen, I knew my life had changed.  I was an adult, my signature meant something, I needed the appropriate pen.  When I graduated from college, she gave me another gold Cross pen.  Then I knew: I was on my own, I was making decisions for my life, I had to know when to use the appropriate pen.

* * *

After the first attempt at buying an apartment fell through, Lynn and I took some time off.  But before long, we knew we had to get back on the horse and start looking at apartments again.  So we hit the open house circuit and checked out some new possibilities.  One was fantastic.  It's in a new building, so everything is brand new.  There are two bathrooms (this becomes important when you're married), great kitchen appliances, and even a washer and dryer.  There's a roof deck with views on Manhattan, and the elevator goes all the way up for those of us who are too lazy to take stairs.  It's a great apartment.  And the most surprising part was that it is far more affordable than many of the other, older, apartments we've looked at.

We moved quickly, and made an offer.  It was accepted that same day.  Oh boy, I thought, here we are again with an accepted offer and needing to get to the contract phase.  This time, though, things went smoothly.  All the paperwork checked out and things were looking good.  Our lawyer worked out the contract with the seller's lawyer, and in just a few days we were set.

I brought the contract home from our lawyer's office so Lynn and I could sign it together.  We each signed with a gold Cross pen.

"Poor Little Rhode Island...."

While exploring "upstate" Connecticut during our anniversary weekend, Lynn and I drove to a small town just inside Rhode Island.  We had no particular purpose other than it was one of the two states east of the Mississippi River that I hadn't seen.

Westerly, Rhode Island was a fairly typical town.  But I kept thinking of my grandmother.  When I was kid spending time at my grandparents' house, she would often sing to herself while cleaning or cooking.  They were never songs I knew, but I loved hearing them and would follow her around the house listening.  I had to be careful and quiet, because she tended to stop and pay attention to me if she saw me.  One song I can still hear in her voice:

Poor little Rhode Island,
Smallest of the forty-eight!

I haven't seen my grandma in person for a long time, but it was nice to meet her in Rhode Island.

Leinie Berry Weiss for the Summer

Further evidence that, indeed, everything will be alright out in Brooklyn. I've discovered a huge beer distributing store on Court Street that carries Leinenkugel. Some of my most fond memories of Houghton involved Monday nights when a group of us would go to Pilgrim River Steakhouse and have steak burgers and pitchers of Leini (usually the honey weiss). It was always a great start to a week.

In the summer, Leinie had a berry weiss that always hit the spot. Some friends of mine even had it at their wedding. Now that I've found Leinie in Brooklyn, it looks like it's going to be a great summer of grilling in our backyard garden.

Astronaut Ice Cream!

One of those staples of childhood museum trips was to stop off at the gift shop at the end of the day and get some astronaut ice cream. Crumbling freeze-dried goodness packed in a shiny foil wrapper. It was always one of the highlights of going to any museum, ranking just below the animatronic dinosaurs and just above the screen that would hold your shadow for several seconds after a light turned off. (Of course, it never came close to the planetarium.)

Today I find myself connecting through Houston on my way to California. Capitalizing on a certain NASA center somewhere in this town, there's a "Space Trader" gift shop here in my terminal. They have astronaut ice cream. I can't even remember the last I had any. So I bought some.

You're probably expecting me to say it doesn't taste as good as I remember. But you'd be wrong, it's delicious!