The high untrespassed sanctity of space

Yesterday we lost one of the real heroes of the past 70 years. John H. Glenn, Jr., the last of the Mercury Astronauts, died at an Ohio State University hospital, age 95.

Glenn was a son, a husband, a father; an aviator, an engineer, a Marine, a politician—a man who took seriously the idea of public service. He flew Corsairs in the Pacific during World War II, and then Panthers and Sabres in the Korean War. During his time as a Marine, he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross six times. After that, he was a test pilot until he was chosen to be one of the Mercury Seven, our first Astronauts.

He was the first American to orbit the earth, in 1962, in the craft he named Friendship 7. Retiring from the Marine Corps he was elected to the US Senate, where he served for 24 years. His aspirations for the Presidency were never fulfilled. In 1998 he returned to space, in the space shuttle Discovery, the oldest person yet to fly one of those missions. He was 77.

Just look at that face. Even though he's not flashing that signature grin, you can see the joy behind his eyes.

You can read about Glenn’s distinguished career in any of the twelve squillion obituaries that will be published today. But here are two things I want to say.

He was married to his childhood sweetheart, Annie, for 73 years, and that is not something you hear about very often.

And if any human could be said to have loved flying, it would be John Glenn. He has, one last time and forever, slipped the surly bonds of earth.