When I was growing up, my small-town barber was a man with a sweet but regulated smile on his face, discouraged eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. His name was Hans Fowler. Over the years of my maturity into early adulthood, Hans and I spoke of many things. He wielded his scissors unhurriedly and had quiet opinions on everything.
In those days there was much talk of sending men to the moon Hans said it would never happen. One day we bet a dollar. In 1970 I came home from college to get my hair cut. Hans paid up but still thought the whole thing staged.
Hans had a son, George, who died at Pearl Harbor on the USS Arizona. He and his wife told my mother—they were all young then—that George was in the bottom of the ship, doing KP duty, and could not possibly survive. They were right. He was their only child.
I’ve wondered if Hans didn’t believe in the moon walk because he didn’t, in the end, much believe in good news. Life can be wonderful, except when it isn’t.
This is Tom McBride. That’s my Perspective.
