Life at 9200rpms: Neil Armstrong, Bill Mauldin and his Grieving Lincoln drawing

      When Neil Armstrong, the first man to set foot on the moon, died last week, it marked the passing of a quiet, capable man.  For all of us on Earth, he fulfilled the dream of space travel and all that encompasses.  

      Armstrong along with Apollo astronauts Michael Collins and Buzz Aldrin did what President Kennedy said the United States would do: put a man on the moon by decade's end.

    JFK was killed before the statement came true.  The death of Armstrong reminded me where I was at the time of the President's death in November, 1963.   Most of us who were aware of what happened can recall where we were when we heard the news of Kennedy's death.  

     I was working at the Chicago Sun-Times newspaper when the rare Associated Press news "flash" bells sounded on the teletype machines in the paper's wire room.

   I handed the flash AP copy to the managing editor on duty at the news desk.  It was after 1 p.m. and the morning paper's first edition deadline was only a couple of hours away.  The usual cacophony of the city room quieted as the five bells of the flash message sounded first at the shooting of JFK and then announcing his death in Dallas.

     At the time I didn't know what was happening a mile north in an apartment at State St. and North Av., where Bill Mauldin, a two time Pulitzer prize winning editorial cartoonist, was creating a memorable editorial drawing of  another assassinated president, Abraham Lincoln.  

     The drawing showed Lincoln as he is in the Lincoln Memorial, seated and looking out over the reflective pool on the Mall in Washington.

     Mauldin's drawing showed Lincoln with his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, grieving at the news of Kennedy's death.  It was at once simple and complete.  The drawing conveyed the whole message.

     I was working as a copy boy for the paper for a little over two months. Copy boys were the all purpose utility infielders of the newsroom, distributing copy produced by reporters and rewrite men, running errands, in short, doing all the grunt work.

    It was raining in Chicago that afternoon.  It was a soaking rain. I was assigned to go by cab to Mauldin's apartment and bring back his drawing in time for the first edition.  I got cab fare from the assistant city editor, who gave me the address and told me to call the city desk when I had the "package." 

     At Mauldin's North State Parkway apartment building, I took the elevator to an upper floor and was met at the door by Mauldin. He invited me into the apartment, which had a good view of Lincoln Park to the north.

     He offered me coffee as he retrieved the drawing, "the package."  He showed me the Grieving Lincoln and it's impact was immediate.  Quite a statement.

    I finished the mug of coffee, called the city desk, and took my leave.  Mauldin found a document tube and slipped the "package" into it. 

     The cab ride back to the paper took only five or six minutes.  I kept the package out of the rain under my coat.  I felt like I was delivering a treasure.

     The first edition of the paper, which is tabloid size, told the news of he President's death on page one and the Grieving Lincoln covered the entire back page.  What a statement.