Dave and Jim had awarded me the power of attorney to pick up their covers. So on July 29, I headed to the National Archives in Washington, D.C., for a morning appointment. The covers were in storage, right next to the Warren Commission report on President Kennedy’s assassination. They were brought to me in a small storage box. In the corner of that mostly empty box was a little pile of postal covers. I placed the box on a table the staff told me had been used as part of the surrender ceremonies at the end of World War II, and I signed my own peace treaty with the government there.
Jim and Dave met me at the archives, and we strolled to a local Irish pub. Over a drink, we divided up the envelopes as agreed. At last, our personal, private property was under our control again, to do with as we wished. It was a peculiar final meeting as a trio, sharing a meal and passing envelopes around. To my recollection, it was the last time the three of us were ever in the same room together.
I had just done Dave and Jim a big favor. Getting the covers back did a lot to clear our names at long last. The newspaper coverage of the settlement used phrases such as “proved themselves right and blameless,” and “after eleven years they’d been vindicated.” Nevertheless, it did not feel like a time to celebrate.
Suing my former employer had been a bitter experience. I didn’t love all of the managers at NASA, but I still loved the work they did, especially now that the space shuttle was flying and the space program was rolling again in a way that it had not done for a decade. Now we’d settled all of our differences. Then, as the people I disliked retired or moved on and the covers issue receded into ancient history, my relationship with NASA grew warm and cozy again. Today, it’s better than ever.
Dave was very pleased with me. And it was oddly satisfying to be the crewmember who took the lead and sorted out the mess. But ten years of reflection on the events surrounding my firing had changed my feelings toward Dave. My deep admiration for him as a spaceflight commander was still strong. My feelings about him as a person were quite different. I didn’t feel particularly friendly to him. And in the quarter of a century that has passed since we sat there having a drink that day, I have rarely felt otherwise.
For better or worse, for richer or poorer, we’ll always be a crew. When I give public presentations, I proudly wear a jacket with an Apollo 15 patch on it; Dave’s and Jim’s names are right there on my chest next to mine. We’ll forever be a team who accomplished an amazing flight. But that is where it ends. I am happy to talk with the public for hours about Dave Scott the outstanding astronaut whom I trusted with my life in space. When it comes to the individual whom I followed just as eagerly here on earth, now that I have written this book, I doubt I will give him much thought for the rest of my life.
Jim, on the other hand, I still loved like a brother, and I met up with him whenever I could. I admired his energy, but I worried about his health. He kept up that relentless speaking schedule. It seemed he was in a different corner of the world every month, spreading his religious message. He slimmed down and jogged five miles a day to try to stay healthy, but in the end it wasn’t enough.
On August 8, 1991 I received a phone call from a mutual friend—the message I had long dreaded. Jim had suffered another heart attack—and this time it was fatal. He was only sixty-one years old.
It was a shock for the NASA community. Only twelve people had walked on the moon, and now the world had lost one. I attended Jim’s funeral in Colorado Springs—an odd experience, with a chapel full of well-known televangelists orating at length about a man they barely knew—and hoped it would be the last astronaut funeral for a long time. It wasn’t. In that same decade we lost four other guys who had flown to the moon. Time was catching up with us.
In 1997 I retired from a great technology acquisition job in private industry and was ready to work for myself again. Then I received an unexpected call from NASA. Jack Boyd, a senior manager, had an intriguing offer. Would I like to come back and work for them?
Ames was creating a new aircraft division, and Jack wanted me to be in charge of all of NASA’s airplanes for the entire western half of the continent. It was an outstanding job and a great pay offer. I was deeply tempted. So I headed out to Ames, where I would be based once again and started to look at houses. But since I had left, the area had grown more and more as a high-tech hub. The high-paying computer jobs in Silicon Valley had accelerated the house prices astronomically. With regret, I had to turn down the job; I just couldn’t afford to live there anymore. Nevertheless, it meant a lot to me to be asked back. My journey to repair my self-esteem was almost complete. Only one challenge remained.
CHAPTER 14
A NEW TRANQUILITY
My mother lived through it all. In 1909, when she was born, people struggled to fly across the English Channel. It was only six years after the Wright brothers made their historic flight. She lived to join me in celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of my flight to the moon. Yet none of the advances in technology meant much to her. She remained the same stoic farm girl she had always been, heading the family and directing our social events. Eventually she needed daily nursing care, but she still remained fiercely independent. She stayed active until the end, but eventually she just wore out. At the age of ninety-four, she faded away.
She had taught me self-reliance, something that had served me well throughout my life. Nevertheless, although I could operate alone, I still wanted acceptance from my peers. I’d fixed most of the pieces over three decades. I had resolved the covers issue. I’d made friends with NASA again. But I still hoped for the acceptance, even the forgiveness, of my astronaut peers.
When I moved to Florida in the early 1980s, I became involved in the local Boys’ Club. They did great work inspiring kids who needed help in life. Each year I would try to bring astronauts out to help with their annual fundraising event. One year I managed to assemble nineteen of us, including the Apollo 11 crew.
Then, in 1984, I heard that the surviving members of the original Mercury astronaut group were creating a foundation, the Mercury Seven Foundation, to provide scholarships for college students who exhibited exceptional performance in science or engineering. I liked the idea of helping the best and brightest through college, knowing they could make a real difference to future innovation.
So I got in touch with Al Shepard, the astronaut who was driving the project. Put me on the board, I suggested—I can help. I’m not sure he thought much of me, but as I lived close to the Cape, where most of the foundation’s activities took place, eventually he put me to work. I suspect my appointment was simply because I was close by, so I could be tasked with some of the less glamorous chores.
The Mercury astronauts were older than my astronaut group, so as time went by my peers needed to assume more of the responsibilities. Al passed away in 1998, and the foundation widened its scope to become the Astronaut Scholarship Foundation, known as the ASF. In 2005, I was elected to chair the foundation.
The first year the Mercury Seven Foundation gave out scholarships, they awarded a total of seven thousand dollars. Over the years we’ve grown to the point where we have now awarded more than two and a half million. At a time of life when many people have retired, I work harder than ever, aggressively courting sponsors and colleges so we can help more and more students every year. We’re trying to pick kids who will make a huge difference two decades from now. Perhaps they will take us beyond the moon and out to the planets. Perhaps they will help provide the world with clean and renewable energy or help us to restore our Earth’s fragile environment. I don’t know. I do know that their achievements will be important and impressive.