Imparting the thrill of the '69 moon walk

July 20, 1969. The first lunar landing.

I remember it well - I think.

It was dark when the big moment occurred; my room, the picture on the black-and-white TV, outside, all dark.

(Or was it? The Grumman-built Lunar Excursion Module touched down on the surface of the moon at 4:17 p.m. Eastern Time. But Neil Armstrong didn't get out of the capsule until 61/2 hours later.)

I watched the Yankees on TV, switching back and forth between Walter Cronkite and Phil Rizzuto. They were the mediocre Yankees then, but that night they beat the powerhouse Baltimore Orioles in an exciting game; the backup catcher, Jake Gibbs, got the winning hit.

(Nope: The record shows that while the Yankees did win, it was a day game against the equally mediocre Washington Senators. They halted the play when the moon landing was announced, the crowd sang "America the Beautiful." Play resumed, and the contest was decided in the 11th inning, although it was outfielder Roy White who got the winning hit.)

At one point, I went down to the refrigerator of my parents' home in Malverne, took out a Good Humor toasted almond bar and ate it as I watched the landing.

(While there is no way to check this, I am beginning to think that given my faulty recollections of other details that day, it might not have been toasted almond; perhaps not Good Humor; and maybe it was a slice of cheesecake instead.)

Memory is a funny thing. But this much I know: July 20, 1969, was one of the greatest days in human history. "We have seen a wonder," wrote C.P. Snow in Look magazine. "We ought to count our blessings." I certainly did, and still do, for having been old enough to appreciate the day Neil Armstrong took "one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind," followed shortly by Col. Edwin E. "Buzz" Aldrin.

So when I heard that Aldrin was going to be in Huntington last month, talking about his new book, "Magnificent Desolation," published to coincide with the 40th anniversary of the moon landing, I wanted to go, and to bring my son with me.

Andrew is 13, and going into ninth grade -- about the same age I was then. But, unlike him and his buddies, who seem more excited by new cell phone features than the humdrum succession of Shuttle flights that define space exploration today, I grew up when it was all a bold, new adventure.

I was in first grade when Alan Shepard became the first American in space during his 15-minute ride on Freedom 7. From that moment on, I was a space buff. I read and watched everything I could about the astronauts.

I followed every flight, knew the names of every crew. I collected space stamps, built space models, even wrote a letter to NASA asking for as many autographed astronaut photos as they could round up, and (amazingly) got two in the mail: Gemini III co-pilots John Young, who would walk on the moon in 1972 and go on to pilot the first Space Shuttle, and Gus Grissom.

Grissom, one of the original "Right Stuff" Mercury astronauts, would have been the first man on the moon, had it not been for the fire that swept through the capsule of Apollo 1 during a mission simulation at Cape Kennedy (as it was known, then), incinerating him, and his two crewmates, Ed White and Roger Chaffee.

That happened on Jan. 27, 1967 -- my 12th birthday.

To think that just 2½ years later, NASA had picked itself up and met the goal of President John F. Kennedy to get a man on the moon by the end of the decade -- well, I was as proud as if I had something to do with it personally.

As I watched the events unfold that night, I realized I was seeing something truly epic -- even more amazing than the time my friend Ricky let me sneak a glimpse of a purloined copy of Playboy behind his garage.

Still, what did those long-ago events mean to my son in 2009? I knew the moon landing could never have the same power for someone his age as it did for anyone who witnessed it live on television. But I wanted him to have an opportunity to see and hear one of the men who did something probably none of us in my generation will be able to do in our lifetime.

I was mildly surprised to find out he even knew who Aldrin was. "He's the guy they named Buzz Lightyear after," Andrew said. (Aldrin himself likes to joke about his "Toy Story" namesake, claiming that he "taught Buzz Lightyear everything he knows.")

I told Andrew that Aldrin was one of only 12 American men who had walked on the moon; of those, nine are still alive. To see the second man to do it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one who felt that way. When Aldrin arrived at the Book Revue in Huntington last month, an audience of about 800 cheered him like a rock star. They remembered July 20, 1969, too, and had, brought their kids and grandkids along, as well.

We listened, as Aldrin, 79, a fighter pilot in the Korean War and a PhD from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, talk about his life, what it was like to go to and return from the moon (post moonwalk was harder - he said he suffered from depression and alcoholism) and about his hopes that we'll go back again.

Handsome, trim and charismatic -- moonbeams almost seem to radiate from him - Aldrin was a big hit. "Awesome!" Andrew said, afterward. "He was really cool."

Andrew has his own moon memory now. Hopefully, 40 years from now, he'll remember who was sitting next to him.