A short story about one government-issue, middle-class, Middle-American family from Denver

My government-issue parents in Denver, circa 1950. Thanks to my sister Mary for the photo.

I was born in Denver at the tail end of 1950.

My father was a World War II veteran who used the G.I. Bill of Rights to graduate from Regis College (now Regis University) in three years. It was a private Catholic college, one he never could have afforded without the government program, promulgated by Pres. Roosevelt and sponsored by Democrats and Republicans, that provided college degrees for millions of American men. The U.S. Navy paid for my mother's nurse's training at Mercy Hospital in Denver. The war was over before she finished so she didn't have to join the fight. But she did use her government-supported training to help support her nine children from 1946 until she died forty years later. My father spent most of his working life building Defense Department-funded ICBM missile silos around the West and then with the space program in Florida. His salary, directly and indirectly, was paid by Uncle Sam.

My father's father made a pretty good living in Denver selling insurance with Mutual of New York. But before he joined private industry, he served with the Iowa National Guard on the U.S. Mexico border and then in France with the AEF. After repeated gas attacks, the Army shipped him to Fitzsimons Army Medical Hospital outside Denver. During his recuperation, he struck up a friendship with an Army nurse, Florence Green from Baltimore, who had traded the life of a debutante to tend to shattered soldiers on the front. The U.S. Army trained her in the healing arts. Grandpa Shay was forever grateful. Both Grandma and Grandpa received the lion's share of their medical care from Veteran's Administration hospitals in Denver and Cheyenne. They both were buried in Denver's government-administered military cemetery, Fort Logan. You can go visit them. Notice what a fine job the V.A. does in maintaining this national landmark. Go ahead, notice.

My mother' mother was the first postmistress in a little town outside Cincinnati. She liked her government paycheck. But one summer she joined her sister and two friends for a road trip via flivver to the Rocky Mountains. The roads were rough. Fortunately, Brevet Lt. Col. Dwight D. Eisenhower had led the U.S. Army's Motor Transport Company from D.C. to California in 1919 and made the road navigable. A year later, she was following the same government-blazed trail and, a year after that, she and her sister were living in Denver and visiting the mountains regularly.

Ike was from Kansas but he liked Denver. He got married in Denver to Mamie Doud and later fished the U.S. Forest Service mountain streams during his breaks from the Oval Office. During one Mile High trip, he suffered a heart attack and recuperated at Fitzsimons Army Hospital. I was four -- almost five -- at the time. Our family lived just off of Colfax Avenue in Aurora and my father took me down to the corner, pointed at the well-lit building across the street, and said: "Our president is right over there." The president was a Republican. My father was a Democrat -- then. But he said "our" president. Gen. Eisenhower had been his supreme commander in the ETO. And now he was his -- our -- president. We then walked back to our $8,000 house, purchased without a down payment and paid for with a low-interest loan. At the end of his life, my father was astonished that he paid twice as much for a new car as he paid for his first house. He was a Florida Republican by then, a by-product of Nixon's southern strategy. He seemed astonished by many things, particularly the Liberal politics of his eldest son. Even though he passed away almost a decade ago, Dad may be astonished still.

Spawn of our government-sponsored parents (see above), taken in her backyard in Daytona Beach, Fla.,
where we used to watch government-sponsored rockets blast off into space (from the Mary Shay Powell archives).

My mother's father came from Ireland in 1917. He worked with his brother on the Chicago El until he got sick and had his infected lung removed at the city's charity hospital. The doctor advised him to take his one remaining lung and go to the healthy climes of the West. Grandpa made it as far as Denver, liked it, and decided to stay. He worked at the post office for many years, and then the railroad. He also was a handyman and a helpful neighbor. He only had a sixth-grade education, but I learned more from my Grandpa Hett than I did from almost anyone else. He was a strong believer in the healing power of ice cream. This also is my belief.

These are my forebears. An imperfect lot, to be sure, and I carry on that tradition. It is possible that we all would be perfectly fine without the programs and opportunities offered by our citizen-funded government. It is possible, yet unlikely.

Stuck outside of Hogtown with those Shuttle Launch Blues again

Insignia for the first shuttle launch

We were just outside of Hogtown when the first Shuttle went up. Other cars joined us along the side of I-75 to view history. We were disappointed, not with the launch, but with the fact that we weren't on the beach at Daytona. That was our goal when my wife Chris, my brother Dan and I left Denver two days before.

Stuff happens. A batch of bad gas in Mississippi, or maybe just an aging vehicle. We were stalled for several hours at a truck stop on the Florida panhandle. The car still wasn't running right when we pulled off the highway for the launch.

An impressive sight. Heard and felt it, too. After it climbed out of sight, leaving its contrail drifting in the clear Florida sky, we looked at each other and said, "Let's go to the beach."

All three of us had viewed many launches over the years, some from the beach and some from our backyard. My father worked for the space program out of Daytona, for NASA and G.E. Chris's father used to take her and her sister down to the beach to watch the spectacles. I heard "The Eagle has landed" via the car radio as my high school girlfriend and I were parked on the beach during a July thunderstorm (yes, I was paying more attention to the moon landing than to the business at hand).

I'd like to be on the beach today. To watch the launch and to be on the beach, my old haunt. Chris is in Daytona for her high school reunion. She'll see the launch with her sister and old Seabreeze High School "Fighting Sandcrabs" pals. I don't care much for reunions. But I'm miffed that I'm missing the last Shuttle launch.

Some of my progressive colleagues don't see the value of the space program. They contend that it's too expensive. They don't see the value in the scientific research. They don't understand why we have to send actual humans into space when robots can do the work cheaper and with less risk.

But "manned flight" (lots of women in space, too) is important precisely because it's in our genes to explore. One major benefit from the Space Shuttle are the fantastic images captured by the Hubble. They have opened up the wonders and terrors of our universe like nothing else. Colliding galaxies and collapsing stars and black holes and artistically-shaped nebulae and all of that space (what's with that dark matter?). We must go there to see these wonders and to figure out what they are and what they mean.

I grew up reading Tom Swift and then Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury. Sci-fi fed my imagination. And then came the space program. I had the great good fortune to live at the epicenter of Mercury and Gemini and Apollo.

One closing note: that first shuttle launch happened 20 years to the day after the first manned space flight by the Soviet Union. In 1981, we were still going toe-to-toe with the Reds in space and on the ground (Reagan was newly elected). Now that the U.S is Shuttle-less, guess who we will depend on to get groceries and extra batteries to the space station?

Those darn Russkis. History is a funny thing.