I’ve had a few encounters with famous folks, mostly while traveling.
Years ago, Reggie Jackson—the personable former baseball player— was checking in for a flight right in front of my husband Mike and me. I was dying to get autographs for our two young sons, but Mike suggested I give him some space and respect his privacy. Mike had a long career in Optometry, and while his work didn’t bring him worldwide fame, he always dreaded being pounced on in public by someone wanting answers to eyeball questions. I reluctantly let the opportunity pass.
Another time, I spied former ABC newscaster Sam Donaldson sitting in first-class on a flight from Washington, DC. He was dressed immaculately, looking over paperwork and enjoying a drink. I was a lowly economy-class flyer, wearing sweatpants, waiting in line to use the bathroom near the cockpit. I gave Mr. D a knowing smile, which he kindly returned.
Another minor brush with fame happened in college, when some friends and I chatted up members of the Jefferson Airplane rock group after they performed at an outdoor concert in Bloomington. That wasn’t exactly a travel-related encounter, though I’m pretty sure most of the musicians, and many of the students, were flying high that afternoon. It was 1970, after all.
But my brief encounters don’t hold a candle to the experience of my late father-in-law, Jack Mangas, who roomed at Purdue with one of the original NASA astronauts, Virgil “Gus” Grissom. They were just a couple of college kids studying Mechanical Engineering when they forged a friendship over slide-rules in the late 1940’s. My in-laws married young, as did the Grissoms’, and the two couples enjoyed socializing in West Lafayette.
After the guys graduated from Purdue in 1950, their lives went in different directions. My father-in-law’s long career was in industrial management, and Grissom joined the Air Force, and from there, on to NASA. Over time, their life responsibilities caused their contacts to dwindle, but the story of their friendship remains a special memory in our extended family.
When Grissom was on a flight from Langley Air Force Base in Virginia to St. Louis in 1960, to confer with McDonnell-Douglas during astronaut training, he wrote to his old friend Jack. It’s a neat slice of history.
Grissom’s letter speaks about the pitfalls of his growing fame. “There seems to always be a photographer and reporters lurking about, and it seems that everyone knows my every move.”
He mentions spending two restful weeks at home with wife Betty and their boys, just relaxing. “So many things get forced on us now, that this is a real treat…. this new life in the public eye, while not unpleasant, we really don’t enjoy it.”
He ponders what’s ahead. “There are many unknowns, and much, much work to be done yet…no one has done the things we are thinking about, so we get into a great deal of trial-and-error engineering.” He writes that his upcoming training could be the pinnacle of his career, (but) “Maybe not, I might get to lead an expedition to the moon.”
He extended an invitation for the Mangas family to come visit, and ended his letter with a warm reminder, emphasizing how much fun it would be to get together and do some fishing. Grissom’s future was focused on the stars, but as a native of Mitchell, Indiana, he was a down-home Hoosier at heart.
Sadly, Grissom never made it to the moon. His life ended in 1967, along with two fellow astronauts, when their space capsule caught fire during pre-flight testing for an Apollo mission. He was a true space pioneer, and it’s an honor our family can claim a connection with him. At ease, Lt. Col. Grissom. May your spirit always soar with the stars.
