Riding Rockets - Mike Mullane [122]
We began our postflight appearances. One of my first was to Albuquerque, where I was given the keys to the city. My flight had not conferred any celebrity. There were no cheering throngs at city hall, just the mayor’s staff, my mom and dad, and a handful of other family and friends. But at least I was introduced by my own name. I had attended an earlier event where Steve Hawley had been introduced by the NASA administrator as “Sally Ride’s husband.” Talk about living in a cold shadow. Hawley’s marriage to Sally had put him on the far side of the moon. When officials in his hometown of Salina, Kansas, told Steve they were putting a sign on a nearby highway proclaiming his astronaut status, Steve had joked with us, “It’ll probably say, ‘Hometown-in-law of Sally Ride.’” Judy, too, had to walk in Sally’s shadow. At several appearances she was referred to as Sally Ride. So I was happy to be “Mike Mullane” at my Albuquerque homecoming instead of “an astronaut who flew in space with the husband of Sally Ride.”
It was a few hours after the Albuquerque ceremony that my grandmother, who had flown from her Texas home to participate in the festivities, died quietly while napping at my parents’ house. Margaret Pettigrew had been born on a Minnesota farm in 1897, six years before the Wright brothers had flown an airplane. In her early childhood, the horse had been the primary mode of transportation. At age eighty-seven she had stood on a Florida beach and watched her grandson ride a rocket into space. Incredible.
Accompanied by our wives, NASA flew us to Washington, D.C., for a glad-handing event with members of Congress. Our crew assembled in a reception line while congressmen and senators passed by, shaking our hands and offering their congratulations. I wondered if Ted Kennedy would appear. If he did, I was certain Hank would blow a brain vein, but the senator from Massachusetts was a no-show.
The reception provided another opportunity for me to observe the pull of Judy’s flight-suited beauty. It was Jovian. During a break in the greetings Steve whispered in my ear, “Watch their eyes as they shake my hand.” I was confused by his comment, but only until the next senator passed. As the politician pumped Steve’s hand, his head was turned and he was smiling directly at Judy. Steve was invisible. I watched several times and every man did the same thing; focused on Judy while handshaking with Steve. Steve could have greeted each of them with “Kiss my ass, Senator,” and they would not have heard. They had come into the gravitational pull of Judy’s beauty and were deaf and blind to the males next to her. Judy handled it with her usual aplomb, being equally gracious to the old lechers as well as the young ones. Of course, every politician wanted a photo next to her. I watched as one deftly folded his cigarette and highball behind his palms and out of view while the photographer snapped a shot. As quick as the flash faded, the cigarette and drink reappeared. He could have gotten a job as a Vegas illusionist.
On this same trip, Mike and Diane Coats and Donna and I, along with Admiral Dick Truly and a handful of other senior NASA officials, traveled to the Pentagon for Mike’s and my astronaut wings ceremonies. The gold astronaut pin was a NASA tradition. The military recognized their astronauts in a separate ceremony with the pinning of aviator wings bearing the astronaut shooting star on the center shield. Every military astronaut considered the award of astronaut wings to be the highlight of their careers. Mike and I were no exception. We had dreamed of this day as ensign and second lieutenant. For me, the ceremony would hold even greater significance. I would become the rarest of USAF weapon systems operators (guys in back of fighters). I would be the first WSO astronaut. It was a very small first, to be sure,