The first man on the moon survived three near-fatal incidents and spent the rest of his life trying to avoid the spotlight
Read more: http://science.time.com/2012/08/25/remembering-neil-armstrong-a-man-of-profound-skill-and-preternatural-calm/?iid=sci-main-lede#ixzz24fPcDkLt
I once watched Neil Armstrong sign his name, and it appeared to be
one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Not because he was
infirm—though in 2010 he was clearly looking frail; and not because his
signature wasn’t still the strong and spiky cursive that was always as
much calligraphy as it was mere handwriting. It was because for more
than 41 years, writing his name was all people seemed to want him to do.
For a uniquely private man, the offering up of the autograph had become
an act of surrender, of obeisance, even of commerce—as the signature he
handed over in a restaurant on a Monday would wind up for sale at an
autograph show on a Tuesday. So he just stopped doing it—until one day
he had to.
That day was in March of 2010, when he, Gene Cernan and Jim Lovell—moon men all—were part of a morale tour of American military bases in the Middle East. I went along on the tour as well, and on this particular evening, our group—well, the three astronauts, actually—were being feted at an outdoor party at the residence of the Commander of the local U.S. Naval fleet. When we arrived, we could see that there was a queue to enter the residence—a queue that was moving unusually slowly because there was a guest book at the door that attendees were expected to sign. Armstrong, the man of principle and hounded legend, could not sign; Armstrong, the ex-Navy man, could not not. So Armstrong the pragmatist split the difference. When his turn came, he took the pen, stood for a moment—and then scribbled something wholly illegible. There was a capital N, to be sure, but what followed was just a brief dash of gibberish. He then put down the pen and entered the party — and I still half-suspect the page wound up on eBay the next day.
(VIDEO: Apollo 11: The Final Approach)
Read more: http://science.time.com/2012/08/25/remembering-neil-armstrong-a-man-of-profound-skill-and-preternatural-calm/?iid=sci-main-lede#ixzz24fPcDkLt
I once watched Neil Armstrong sign his name, and it appeared to be
one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Not because he was
infirm—though in 2010 he was clearly looking frail; and not because his
signature wasn’t still the strong and spiky cursive that was always as
much calligraphy as it was mere handwriting. It was because for more
than 41 years, writing his name was all people seemed to want him to do.
For a uniquely private man, the offering up of the autograph had become
an act of surrender, of obeisance, even of commerce—as the signature he
handed over in a restaurant on a Monday would wind up for sale at an
autograph show on a Tuesday. So he just stopped doing it—until one day
he had to.That day was in March of 2010, when he, Gene Cernan and Jim Lovell—moon men all—were part of a morale tour of American military bases in the Middle East. I went along on the tour as well, and on this particular evening, our group—well, the three astronauts, actually—were being feted at an outdoor party at the residence of the Commander of the local U.S. Naval fleet. When we arrived, we could see that there was a queue to enter the residence—a queue that was moving unusually slowly because there was a guest book at the door that attendees were expected to sign. Armstrong, the man of principle and hounded legend, could not sign; Armstrong, the ex-Navy man, could not not. So Armstrong the pragmatist split the difference. When his turn came, he took the pen, stood for a moment—and then scribbled something wholly illegible. There was a capital N, to be sure, but what followed was just a brief dash of gibberish. He then put down the pen and entered the party — and I still half-suspect the page wound up on eBay the next day.
(VIDEO: Apollo 11: The Final Approach)
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