IT IS TWILIGHT; THERE is a light snow.
His father swings the El Camino into the employee parking lot of the Central Pre-Mix cement quarry on Freya Avenue, the place they stop at—after loading up on Strombolies at Mike’s Burger Royal—whenever there’s a moon shot. The Kid loves the quarry, loves watching the excavator carry crushed stones, like moon-rock, up from the hopper, as bulldozers and semis belch plumes of black smoke, and belts and pulleys hum and whir. His father tunes the radio while his mother hands out the Strombolies, which are wrapped in thick, white butcher-paper; tunes to a recap of what for them is the day’s top story—Apollo 17. Beneath the silver winter sky, parked amidst the foothills of the towering gravel stockpiles, they listen:
“This is the CBS Evening News: Live Co
