I was only twelve years old when the first man placed his foot on the surface of the moon. Like most people at the time, I also remember exactly where I was and what I was doing at the time. I was sitting in the middle of the back seat of the car my mother was driving with each of my two sister on one side of me. We were headed south of San Jose, California on our way back home from a visit to my aunt and uncle's house (Jeanine and Dick). If I remember it correctly, we were just about to drive through and underneath the huge clover-leaf overpass where the highways 880 and 280 meet. At the time, this was an impressive unfinished monument to mankind, an impressive structure with highways bending every which way across the sky. At that point in time, my mother turned on the radio. The news reporter announced that Niel Armstrong had become the first man to set foot on the moon. My memories of this important event are also in black-and-white for some reason, and that moment in time remains clear and focused in the back of my mind. Just another of a million events which have intersected in time with my movements.