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The Eagle had landed. On the surface of the moon, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were safing the lunar module and preparing for their ensuing historic exploration of the surface. In orbit 69 miles above, the command-service module Columbia, with Michael Collins aboard, whipped behind the lunar horizon at 3,600 miles per hour. For the next 48 minutes, Collins was alone, cut off from his colleagues on the other side of the moon and back on Earth.
“Not since Adam has any human known such solitude,” declared NASA’s Mission Control, but Collins experienced it “not as fear or loneliness but as awareness, anticipation, satisfaction, confidence, almost exultation. I like the feeling. Outside my window I can see stars, and that is all.” In his 1974 biography,
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Cincinnati Magazine
December 15, 2020
Like a meteor briefly flashing through the heavens, Laura Bromwell caught the imagination of Americans in the heady days of aviation following World War I. Her short-lived but inspirational career began in Cincinnati.
Image digitized by the Smithsonian Institution Air & Space Museum
She was a farm girl from Switzerland County, Indiana, where she was born in 1897, the seventh of eight children. When Bromwell was 12, her father died when he landed on his head falling out of the hayloft.
A few years later, Laura moved to Cincinnati and found work as a cashier in a Fourth Street restaurant. One day, a customer learned that sheâd dived 50 feet into one of Indianaâs flooded quarries, and he suggested she would never jump from the Suspension Bridge into the Ohio River. When the customer backed his statement with a $20 bet, Bromwell immediately took him up on the wager.