Readers Remember

My roller skates stitched the sidewalk cracks on Lehigh Avenue in Newark, N.J., but I scarcely felt the lifts. It was May 6, 1937. I was 9. The air was cold, signaling rain. I rolled into an endless shadow. Some indefinable heaviness drew my face up. A ridged, silver planet sailed with unbearable slowness over my head. It filled the sky, kept coming, had no end. I stood transfixed. Strange, bold letters moved into my view like film-strip segments, one at a time. Even reading backward, I recognized the combination I had seen in newsreels: G-R-U-B-N-E . . . I raced up the brick steps, still in my skates.

“Mandy! The HINDENBURG!” I shouted.

Our housekeeper rolled her apron around her reddened hands and stood wide-eyed on the porch.

“Where are the people?” I asked.

Mandy pointed at the cab. It looked like an extended navel on the underbelly of an enormous whale. I waved, and dozens of doll-sized arms flapped like wild boomerangs at the upside-down windows. This was not a movie; it was three-dimensional truth. When my father came home, I was breathless to tell him. He did not believe me.

At 7 o’clock that night, the famous zeppelin blew to shreds in a lightning storm at Lakehurst, an hour’s drive away. I’m glad I didn’t see it. We had waved to each other.

BARBARA MEYER

From the Internet

What do you recall most about the 20th century? In 200 words or less, send us your memories, comments or eyewitness accounts. We will publish as many as we can on this page until the end of the year. Write to Century, Los Angeles Times, Times Mirror Square, Los Angeles, CA 90053, or e-mail century@latimes.com. We regret we cannot acknowledge individual submissions. Letters may be edited for space.