Spring came early in a special way to America when Marine Lieutenant Colonel John H. Glenn stepped aboard the destroyer Noa, remarked of his just-vacated capsule, “it was hot in there,” and began sipping a glass of iced tea. It seemed that the frenetic search for a national purpose was over; we had rediscovered our natural virtue, and an orgy of national celebration was launched. “We have felt humbled by John Glenn’s trial,” confessed Max Ascoli in The Reporter, “close to each other, proud of our free institutions and of John Glenn. It has been a very good feeling.” To the sober New York Times columnist, James Reston, Glenn’s flight disproved “the sceptics and doubters, the witch-smellers and head-shrinkers, the debunkers and scoffers (who) had confused and frustrated the country.” Another big city newspaperman concluded that “some great turning point has been reached by our country in these past few days.” Glenn’s achievement was “a catalyst that almost instantly changed the temper of the entire nation. In the few dramatic hours of the space ride, we chucked our plodding, chronic despair and exchanged it for an optimism and bouyancy that we had almost forgotten. . . The long, cold winter is drawing to a close, and a warm and sunny spring is almost upon us. . . Suddenly it’s fun again to be an American.”
Glenn’s triple orbit was not only made to bear the myth of ritual rebirth, but supported a luxuriant variety of other assertions. Our man at the United Nations offered an appropriate internationalist interpretation; the Marine Colonel could be one of the “new men who, having seen our little planet in a wholly new perspective, will be ready to accept as a profound spiritual insight the unity of mankind.” He was seen also as a symbol of youthful virility, “a latter day Apollo,” by Time, “an example of youthful America,” by New York’s World Telegram & Sun, and generally as “the boy next door grown to admirable manhood.” This side of the Glenn image was better handled in the colour reproductions of Life, which put the new hero’s boyish appearance before the entire nation.
If youth could be heartened by Glenn, middle age could also draw assurance. Fifty-six year old Victor Anfuso, Democratic Congressman from Brooklyn, flew his private plane to Cape Canaveral on the
“Many of the very same companies (the Union periodical maintained) which bragged and trumpeted of their own contributions to Project Mercury’s success would have refused Colonel Glenn a job if he had applied for one. Why? Because Colonel Glenn is past 40 years old and many company policies prohibit the hiring of any workers past this magic milestone of maturity.”
The astronaut’s flight sustained other, more weighty burdens than internationalism, youthfulness, or the vitality of creeping middle age. An up-beat vision of America was the almost universally drawn moral, particularly by the most sophisticated commentators on the event. James Reston remarked that this “greatest ride since Paul Revere” was “pure Americana from start to finish: part Hollywood spectacular, part circus, part county fair—three times around the world in living colour and news from Heaven all the way.”The cheap, “chromium plated” side of American life predominated around the launching site. Writing under a Cape Canaveral dateline, Reston saw “the fancy, hard-drinking America . . . all around the base. For days it has been a jungle of inflammable blondes, Billy Minsky stripteasers, press agents, reporters, technicians and a considerable number of other characters who celebrated John Glenn’s achievement long before it came off, and some of whom were well into orbit long before he left the launching pad.”