First Man

by James R. Hansen

  To critics of the Bush initiative who fear the militarization of outer space, Armstrong offers: “We are party to an international treaty on uses of the Moon. I’m quite confident that those legal concerns, as well as other concerns, would express themselves before we got too far down any particular path of further militarization of space.”

  As for other nations of the world competing or cooperating with the United States in major space endeavors, Armstrong, like many in the U.S. space program, has mixed feelings. “Significant accomplishments by the Chinese would certainly be a factor in how the United States viewed its own program. I personally don’t see the evidence of the Chinese having as far-reaching ambitions as some have surmised. Time will tell. For their space ambitions, the Chinese don’t seem to have the secretive nature that the Soviets did. They essentially do announce what they are going to do. In recent years, some reports have said that the Chinese plan to send astronauts to the Moon as soon as possible and other reports saying that goal is longer term. They did an unmanned probe, but it’s hard to tell. I have been invited to China on a number of occasions, but not by the space science people. I have not gone to China and not accepted any of its invitations.”

  It may seem ironic to many, but Neil Armstrong has never considered himself an explorer: “What I attended to was the progressive development of flight machinery. My exploration came totally as a by-product of that. I flew to the Moon not so much to go there but as part of developing the systems that would allow it to happen.”

  CHAPTER 34

  The Astronaut as Icon

  Not surprisingly, one of Armstrong’s boyhood heroes was Charles A. Lindbergh. Neil first met Lindbergh along with his wife, Anne, at the launch of Apollo 8. “I was given the job of helping with touring him around and taking him and showing him the facilities. The night before the launch, I took him out to look at the Saturn V; it was all illuminated with the xenon lights. As Frank Borman’s backup, I couldn’t spend more than just a little time with him.” At the launch, Janet also had a chance to meet the Lindberghs. “I thought Anne Morrow was just fabulous. I had read her book Gift from the Sea. Neil’s mother had given me a copy after Karen’s death. Anne’s description of the Apollo 8 launch, published in Life, was in my mind the only one that was able to communicate what it was really like to see and feel a liftoff.” Lindbergh himself was quoted as saying, “I have never experienced such a sense of power.”

  Lindbergh biographer A. Scott Berg has written, “Lindbergh accepted an invitation from Neil A. Armstrong to attend the launch of Apollo 11…quietly attending the event with his son Jon.” Neil does not specifically remember inviting the man whom friends called “Slim”: “I might have. Once we got into quarantine, the crew couldn’t be bothered anymore, so we never really knew who came and who didn’t.” Most likely, Armstrong did ask Lindbergh to come, because he attended, later calling the successful Moon landing a “fascinating, extraordinary, and beautifully executed mission.” Lindbergh, however, refused President Nixon’s invitation to accompany him to the USS Hornet for the astronauts’ recovery, later explaining: “My declining was based on the fact that I spent close to a quarter century…achieving a position in which I could live, work, and travel under normal conditions.” Apollo 11’s splashdown would naturally “attract the greatest concentration of publicity in the history of the world.”

  Privately, Neil had the chance to talk with Slim “several times” following Apollo 11. “We both went to the Society of Experimental Test Pilots meeting in Los Angeles in late September 1969. He was being inducted as an honorary fellow, and we were seated next to each other at the banquet.” The two fliers also corresponded, as Neil would later do with Anne Morrow before and after Neil came to cochair the Lindbergh Memorial Fund. Lindbergh posed to Neil the rhetorical question: “I wonder if you felt on the Moon’s surface as I did after landing at Paris in 1927—that I would like to have had more chance to look around.”

  Following Lindbergh’s death in 1974, when Armstrong was frequently asked to compare the historic flight of 1927 and the Moon landing, he’d note, “There are certain similarities in the two events.”

  It was Armstrong’s conclusion, however, that “they are probably more unlike than alike—most important because General Lindbergh’s achievement was very individual. There were a limited number of people involved—just a financier, some investors, and him. In the case of Apollo it was an effort of national will, one in which hundreds of thousands of people were involved. We faced different degrees of complexity, but I wouldn’t make light of the general’s accomplishment. He had mastered the technology of his day no less than we mastered ours. One reason his flight was so well received is that many different kinds of people were trying to accomplish the same thing. We pretty much had the Moon to ourselves.”

  The inevitable next question was an uncomfortable one for Neil: how the First Man and “Lucky Lindy” compared on the public adoration front. “I’m not called upon as much as I used to be,” Neil remarked in 1976, “but enough so I do understand his predicament.”

  At the SETP banquet in September 1969, Lindbergh had offered Neil one, and only one, piece of advice: “He told me never to sign autographs.

  “Unfortunately I didn’t take his advice for thirty years, and I probably should have.”

  During the eight years he was at the University of Cincinnati, most of Armstrong’s fan mail came through the campus post office, his only well-known address. “That was a bit of an uncomfortable thing for me because the majority of the correspondence that I received was from people I didn’t know and the majority of that, ninety-eight percent of them, wanted something. Not more than two percent had anything at all to do with the university, so the university was forced to spend resources supporting all that mail, including a special secretary.* Generally we didn’t get that kind of mail at home because most people didn’t know our home address.”

  When he left the university, Neil soon realized that handling his mail on his own was an impossible burden. In February 1980 he rented a small office on Broadway in Lebanon, Ohio, then “I had my accountant put an ad in the paper, not with my name on it,” for an administrative aide.† Vivian White of Lebanon had worked in the local real estate business for twenty-eight years as well as being a part-time secretary for the mayor of Lebanon. Vivian “worked out very well, a very good choice,” in part because, as Vivian explains, “I don’t ask! That has been my policy all along. You can tell what a private person he is, and I just made it a point that I don’t ask him anything that I don’t need to know to do my job.

  “He didn’t even have any furniture in the office when we started. We sat down at a folding card table and he asked me a few questions, and he just happened to ask me things that I knew!” Then “he and his son Mark carried my furniture down the street and put it in this bare office.”

  White worked full-time for about ten years; after that, she “cut back” to four and a half days a week. Armstrong’s countless correspondents received form letters that he himself composed.

  “For the first twelve to fifteen years, he would sign anything he was asked to sign, except a first-day cover. Sometimes a letter would come in and I would think, ‘That name looks kind of familiar. I think this guy asked before.’ So I would go back through the files and check to see if Neil had signed for this guy before. If so, I would just send it back unsigned. Then about 1993, he realized that his autographs were being sold over the Internet. Many of the signatures, he found, were forgeries. So he just quit signing. Still, we get letters saying, ‘I know Mr. Armstrong doesn’t sign anymore, but would you ask him to make an exception for me?’”

  Since 1993, form letters under Vivian’s signature have gone out in answer to 99 percent of the requests, which she categorizes into eleven boxes. First is “I want an autograph or an autographed picture,” second, “I want a congratulatory letter for becoming an Eagle Scout.” A third is individual youth requests for information about piloting or
space exploration, a fourth for similar requests coming from entire classes. A fifth comes from students seeking astronaut qualifications. A sixth asks for donations or contributions for a charitable auction. A seventh responds to invitations for specific events, an eighth for requests for speaking engagements, a ninth for queries from authors wanting a foreword to their book. A tenth category handles media interview requests. Nearly all are declined via standardized letter. In the few instances that Armstrong accepts the invitation, he composes and signs a personal letter. If he chooses to answer someone’s technical question, according to White, “he will write out his answer, I’ll type it up and then put underneath it, ‘Mr. Armstrong asked me to give you the following information,’ and I sign it.

  “We never answer personal questions—they’re just too much an invasion of privacy.” They go into “File Eleven,” the wastebasket.

  On the outbound journey to the Sea of Tranquility from aboard Columbia, Neil made sure to pass along a “hello to all my fellow Scouts at Farragut State Park in Idaho having a National Jamboree there this week; Apollo 11 would like to send them best wishes.” For several years thereafter he took the time to write letters congratulating boys who had achieved the ultimate rank of Eagle Scout.

  In the 1990s, Armstrong concluded that the practice had taken a disturbing turn: “Congratulatory letters should be from people who know the Scouts personally, who know what they’ve achieved and honestly want to congratulate them. When Scouts get letters from political potentates that have actually been written by staff members and signed by an autopen, perhaps it impresses the individual getting the award and receiving that message, but it’s the wrong message. It’s just something that the Scouts don’t do right.”

  According to White, “In the first five months of 2003 alone, we received 950 letters asking for congratulatory letters for new Eagle Scouts. And he used to do this! But after people put his address on the Internet with the word he did this sort of thing, it just increased so much there was no way he could do it.”

  “Over the years I have done a lot of work on behalf of the Scouts,” Neil relates, “but I have not done any of that in recent years.” Much to the chagrin of the BSA, “I have no official association with them.” As for congratulatory letters to Eagle Scouts, today he will only write them to young Cincinnati residents whom he personally knows.

  Armstrong’s belated decision to follow Charles Lindbergh’s advice has provoked disappointment and even antagonism, mostly from profiteer, or more commonly, hobbyist “collectors” of autographs and space memorabilia.

  One 2000 posting on collectSPACE.com, the Internet’s leading resource and community Web site for space history enthusiasts and space artifact collectors, growled: “I realize that many astronauts have been generous with their signing of autographs. And that is wonderful. But some have been stingy from day one. But do they have the right to totally cut the general public off? I do not think so. I am sorry to say this, but, yes, they do owe us something. I am not suggesting that they should sign anything and everything rudely thrust in front of them, anytime, anyplace. Certainly not. They are our cherished American heroes and, yes, they do have a private life. But why can’t there be some kind of middle ground? If an astronaut has a bad experience with an ugly collector, or is just plain tired of signing, by all means, take a break. But, please do not use that as an excuse to punish all of us by saying no forever.”

  Robert Pearlman, the founder of collectSPACE, relates four primary reasons why collectors feel that all astronauts, but Armstrong in particular, should sign autographs. Primarily, “Armstrong was granted the opportunity to go to the Moon by virtue of American taxpayers footing the bill, so he ‘owes’ us his signature.” Pearlman and like-minded hobbyist collectors of space memorabilia rightfully reject this argument.

  Pearlman explains the second argument of the “mad collector.” “There are tales—some more substantiated than others—of dealers or accumulators discovering that Armstrong would reply through the mail with twenty five or thirty autographed photos when a teacher would request signatures for his/her classroom and thus these ‘bad eggs’ began faking educational affiliations. Likewise, some dealers would pay or invent children to request signatures on the theory it would improve their chances of a positive reply. Some collectors feel they do not deserve to be penalized for something that they never would dream to do.”

  Third, collectors suggest that Armstrong “could do a lot of good if he would only sign for a fee and donate the proceeds to a worthy cause.”

  Finally, perturbed collectors believe that it was Armstrong’s disdain for “the autograph market” that provoked his stringent policy—which has served to drive the value of signed Armstrong items ever higher. On the Internet or at an auction in 2005, collectors faced the following high price list:

  Index card: $250 to $350;

  8 x 10 photo/lithograph, other than portrait, personalized: $600 to $800;

  8 x 10 photo/lithograph, portrait, personalized: $600 to $1,200;

  8 x 10 photo/lithograph, without personalization: $2,000 to $5,000;

  typewritten letter on NASA letterhead, signed: $600 to $800;

  handwritten letter and signed: $1,500 to $2,500;

  magazines, books, event programs, newspapers: $250 to $500;

  covers (stamped, canceled envelopes), not flown: $800 to $1,500;

  commercial art prints (by Calle or Rasmussen), may include other signatures: $2,200 to $3,500 (will vary greatly depending on what the photograph depicts).

  According to Pearlman, any of these items—index cards the exception—have sold in the past decade for upwards of $10,000, prior ownership, market venue, and the degree of provenance all being influencing factors. Today, Neil Armstrong forgeries far outnumber the authentic examples. One estimate places the fake Armstrong signatures as high as 90 percent of the eBay catalog.

  The ultimate Armstrong memento, Pearlman relates, would be a signed picture or letter that includes Neil’s famous quote “one small step.” For years it was believed that no authentic examples of such an item existed. Recently, “an authentic example,” signed while Neil was still in quarantine, surfaced, and though it never sold, many thought it could easily reach $25,000, if not higher.

  Armstrong categorically denounces any such item as a fake. “I know that to be false, because I have never, ever quoted myself. From day one, I never did that. So it doesn’t exist anywhere. Not for my mom, not for the Smithsonian, not for anybody—there is not one anywhere. Not in quarantine or any other time. I never did one.”

  Without question, Armstrong’s signature remains by far the most popularly sought after astronaut autograph. Enthusiasts call it “the holy grail” of autographs. Armstrong handwriting “experts” have even published articles on how the downstrokes to his “N” and “A” and other characteristics of his signature have changed over the years. Though not rare (given how many signatures Neil provided for the public for over twenty years), given the perceived value and the desire to possess his autograph, demand is high.

  One unhappy result is that the hundreds of children and teenagers who write to Armstrong yearly of their own fascination with flying or space exploration are disappointed. Questions such as “How did you feel when you were cramped inside the lunar module?” and “What did you learn about yourself after the trip to the Moon?” never cease to fascinate. Though these are the people Armstrong might wish to exempt from his no-autograph policy, it is simply not possible. As a last resort, he has gone with Lindbergh’s way.

  On the third anniversary of Apollo 11 in July 1972, the Neil Armstrong Air and Space Museum opened in Wapakoneta right near the junction of Interstate 75 and U.S. Highway 33. The pride of Ohio governor James Rhodes, the facility began with half a million dollars earmarked by the state legislature even before the Apollo 11 mission was over—even before Armstrong’s likeness made out of butter melted at that summer’s Ohio State Fair. Its exterior designed to resemble a rising fu
ll Moon, the museum’s grand opening featured an appearance by the twenty-six-year-old presidential daughter Tricia Nixon, who said, “Because of what you, Neil, have done, the heavens have become a part of our world.” Before a crowd of five thousand, the blond Tricia then presented the museum with one of Apollo 11’s Moon rocks: “It is a rock which symbolizes mankind’s ability for great achievement to build a better America and a better world.”

  Armstrong’s attendance at the grand opening was shrouded in rumor and uncertainty fueled by newspaper reports that his presence came at the behest of President Nixon, who didn’t want his daughter embarrassed. Frequently during Miss Nixon’s visit, she was overheard to say, “Daddy will be so pleased.” Armstrong told the press, “This is not a homecoming for me. I’m just here to see the museum.” After touring the exhibits, Neil indicated his preference for “the old displays,” notably the Aeronca airplane in which he had learned to fly thirty-six years ago.

  Armstrong put on a relatively happy face for the crowd that day, many of them old friends and neighbors, but he was not at all happy with how the entire museum project had come together: “I should have been asked. The policy I followed from the start had been that I neither encouraged nor prohibited the use of my name on public buildings, but I did not approve their use on any commercial or other nonpublic facility.