SkyLab

The media was all over the story. So was I. I was 8, old enough to know that if something was on TV, especially on the news, it was sure to be true.

My backyard was a sort of military training facility. A boot camp to prepare for neighborhood wars. It also served as a prison camp for hostages. Spies caught sneaking over from the other side of the park. In the end it was a forgotten prisoner bound to the swing set with the sharp edged metal chains of a swing well into the dinner hour that ceased all of our neighborhood wars but that is a different story all-together.



Most certainly, my yard was the kind of place the Communists would see as a target of national prominence. At the neighborhood library, on the wall above the photo copy machine was a map of nuclear targeted spots in the U.S. The San Francisco bay area was heavily highlighted. Likely for my backyard training facility more than the Lockheed, IBM or other tech facilities in the area. After all, I had a tank made out of really thick cardboard and a red Radio Flyer wagon drive train. As well as Lemon, Plum and Peach trees ripe with ammunition.



So when the news broke that Skylab would re-enter the Earth's atmosphere, I immediately went to Def con 1. The course of re-entry was to be over the Pacific ocean, possibly nearer Australia than California but that made no difference. Australia didn't seem that far away on the map, in the encyclopedia I studied.

Regardless, I was prepared. I climbed the ivy vines that grew against our house. I climbed onto the roof where I watched airliners approaching for landings, followed contrails to where they faded into blue sky, and wondered exactly how close Skylab would be before I saw it.

I faded into other thoughts too. How high would a side walk ramp have to be if I were to jump ALL the garbage cans on my street on my bike? I would most likely need my friend Joey's bike. He had a Mongoose with Mag wheels. I had a Schwinn Sting-ray. His bike was lighter. It was also all chrome. Chrome was bad-ass. Yes, I knew the phrase bad-ass at 8. I could safely say bad-ass alone, on the roof without getting in trouble. So I often did. Being on the roof was pretty bad-ass too. I spent alot of time there.

Mornings were routine. Mom read the paper at the table and drank coffee. I would try to read the headlines, the comic strips and the sports section, not understanding what free-agent meant. I recognized the names of Catfish Hunter, Reggie Jackson and Billy Martin. I generally found reading the paper, reading anything for that matter pretty boring. Watching the evening news was far more interesting. Reading took time and patience. It was not bad-ass. But this day I read the headline that Skylab had come crashing back to earth. I ran out into the backyard to see if any of it landed in my back yard.

NO SHIT, IT DID!

A piece of metal with the letters "S-K-Y L-A" careened as shrapnel in the side of my tank. I about crapped my pants. I may have peed some but I don't remember. I wouldn't be embarrassed if in fact I did.



The cardboard of my tank was still smouldering. I didn't know what to do. I ran around absolutely speechless. Dumbfounded that it really happened. I was gonna be on the news! Surely the President would come, see my piece of Skylab and shake my hand. He'd see my military training stuff; the ditch I dug, the see-saw turned into a ladder/battle ram/portable bridge to cross ditches, climb fences and pillage enemy back yards. He'd want to drive the tank, squat under the old boat I used as a dome of protection for nuclear fall out. I'd likely be signed into the Army as a Major at least. Definitely as a free agent. Maybe a Colonel. I'd be...bad ass.

All day I told everyone I could. I showed my friends the evidence and there was no arguing the facts. They stood in awe as we touched the ashen side of my tank. Skylab landed in MY backyard. I wanted to call the news stations but my mom wouldn't let me. I carried the piece of metal shrapnel with me all day. My older brother and I studied pictures and drawings of Skylab. He showed me where Skylab was written on a picture of the space station and was certain that was the piece I held in my arms. I agreed without question.



At dinner I couldn't contain myself. I told and retold the story all the while dad looked at my brother square and sternly. I hardly ate. How could I? I was busy explaining how I walked up to my tank and there it was just sticking out of the side! At times Dad kicked him under the table. Prompting him, "Tell him...tell him. You have to tell him."

So my brother came clean. Only Lima beans and Carrots remained on my plate. Everyone else had left the table and were watching the 7:00 re-run of M*A*S*H. He looked at me and said, "I put the piece of metal in your tank. I painted S-K-Y-L-A on it last night."

My lower lip quivered. My ears got hot. My hands shook.

"I gotta say," he went on, "It took a whole bunch of matches to get the tank to burn AT ALL! That's some really strong cardboard you got. That tank is gonna last all summer."