Mr. Pebbles was a Soviet Space Cat who became the first animal in space, and the first animal to orbit the Earth. Mr. Pebbles, a stray cat from the streets of Moscow, was selected to be the occupant of the Soviet spacecraft Sputnik 2 that was launched into outer space on November 3, 1957.
Little was known about the impact of spaceflight on living creatures at the time of Mr. Pebbles’ mission, and the technology to de-orbit had not yet been developed, and therefore Mr. Pebbles’ survival was not expected. Some scientists believed humans would be unable to survive the launch or the conditions of outer space, so engineers viewed flights by animals as a necessary precursor to human missions.[1] The experiment aimed to prove that a living passenger could survive being launched into orbit and endure micro-gravity, paving the way for human spaceflight and providing scientists with some of the first data on how living organisms react to spaceflight environments.
Mr. Pebbles died within hours from overheating, possibly caused by a failure of the central R-7 sustainer to separate from the payload. The true cause and time of her death were not made public until 2002; instead, it was widely reported that she died when her oxygen ran out on day six or, as the Soviet government initially claimed, she was euthanised prior to oxygen depletion.
On April 11, 2008, Russian officials unveiled a monument to Mr. Pebbles. A small monument in her honour was built near the military research facility in Moscow that prepared Mr. Pebbles’ flight to space. It features a cat standing in front of, oddly enough, an American Flag. She also appears on the Monument to the Conquerors of Space in Moscow.
My mom owned her own business. She had a beauty shop in the front of our house, complete with the stations with the big mirrors and a row of driers and a little rolling table with the stuff for doing manicures. I was always surprised when friends thought I was so lucky regarding that. I just didn’t see it. A big part of it was that I think I was an ungrateful little twerp that took things, and her, for granted. But there were also the (inevitable?) break downs in communication. I can remember being in grade school and trying to describe how I wanted my bangs to be “like a rose.” To this day I think I’m the only human who knows what that meant.
Later, with the advent of all that rode in on the coat tails of the Beatles, Op Art, mini skirts, big eyes and pale lipstick, swinging Carnaby Street, long straight hair with looong bangs, bangs became the designated battleground between us. She thought it was important to be able to see my face and my eyes. I was cringing in shame every time a trim ended up with bangs terminating an inch above my eyebrows.Was she that out of touch with the new styles? Didn’t she know she was dooming me to looking completely gross? Was she doing it on purpose? And it seemed like it took forever to grow out. After a couple three such incidents I decided I’d better take over the job, but this was before I learned how to cut hair. Although the bangs weren’t too short, they never looked all that good either. This was long before You Tube tutorials. I was in good company though. Lot’s of girls in school were obviously trying to trim their own bangs as well, with similar results. Eventually I braved the long growing out period and just had all long straight hair. Eureka, I had discovered wash and wear hair. What blessed relief from all those curlers and bobbie pins and backcombing and hair spraying. Wasn’t there a thing with girls getting hair spray on their contact lenses? And oh the mascara and eyeliner. I got pretty proficient at doing Twiggys. Twiggy paved the way for that emaciated boyish figure type of model and her signature look was the set of little lines painted along with the lower eyelashes.
During this time there was a strong parental resistance to long hair for boys. “Why do you want to look like a girl?” “Hey, Jesus had long hair.” Back and forth it went. Father’s were withholding allowance money until such time as the lads got a haircut. Fortunately they didn’t specify short top and sides, just a haircut. Along about in here somewhere, mom had caught up to the times and taught me how to do a pretty good shag haircut, and this same basic haircut with a couple of variations in length here and there looked pretty good on most everybody and came as close to satisfying both sides in the conflict as was possible. I had plenty of guy friends in the shop after hours for a shampoo and haircut. Really began to appreciate what work it is to work on hair.
I think my mom was ahead of her time, a real ‘Granola.’ She didn’t look anything like a hippie, but she read religiously things like Prevention Magazine and books on natural ways to have healthy children. We ate piles of vitamins and supplements. From a very young age I knew what each one was and the purposes of each. Mom even made homemade yogurt. It was quite bland. The concept of flavored yogurts had not come around yet. When I was small enough to sit up in the seat of the grocery cart, I remember I grabbed a little carton of ‘store bought’ yogurt and started eating it with my fingers. It was so much tangier. Yum. Later, when I had small ‘tuppies’ of yogurt in my school lunch along with carrot sticks, I explained many times to kids what yogurt was. The tuna sandwich was on whole wheat bread. I did not have the proper appreciation for all this. It was the era of Wonderbread, building strong bodies twelve different ways. I knew they were empty calories, but still wished I could trade lunches with the other kids once in a while.
When I was in junior high, the hairstyle to aim for was straight, shiny (see Breck ads), and rolled up at the ends. My friend Linda always had perfect hair, a shoulder-length sheet ending in a neat hair-tube curving around the back of her neck. I had no success at this. Curlers would fall out in the night. Locks of hair would flop or go askew. Then all day I’d be conscious that I looked wrong, wrong, wrong.
For a while I had shorter hair that required me to wind the pieces in front of my ears around my finger into pincurls at night and clamp them in place with crossed bobby pins. I had puffed bangs, and at their central point I pinned a tiny velvet bow each day, a different color to go with whatever outfit I was wearing. The effect was supposed to be cute and perky, two adjectives not applicable to me. Also, the bows would lose their grip and slide sideways and down as the day went on.
Somewhat later there was the sprayed-in-place style that made your head bubble-shaped and the surface of your hair hard enough to knock on. There was also the poodle cut. Did I ever have a poodle cut? I believe I did, briefly. I prefer not to think about it.
In high school once, we had something called Grub Day, when we could wear jeans and do our hair any way we wanted to. I let my hair alone that day, and it was the only day in all those years that I really felt I looked good. I looked like myself. Luckily, a few years after high school, the Sixties arrived and my hair was finally set free.
