WHITBY FREE PRESS, WEDNESDAY, JUL.Y 20, 1988, PAGE 5 Nineteen years ago today, two miracles took place. At 10:56 p.m. (EDT) a 38-year-old American set his left foot firmly.on the powdery surface of the moon. And in a hospital in London, Ont.,.my· daughter Jennifer, then three years old, lived. The triumph of the moon shot was the triumph of hundreds of engineers and scientists over a ten-year period. It began in May, 1961, when President John F. Kennedy of the United States gave the go-ahead to the National Space and Aeronauitics Administration to "landing a inan of the moon and returning him safely to earth." The triumph of saving my daughter's life was the triumph of doctors and nurses and ambulance attendants in the burn unit at Victoria Hospital, London. They had only minutes to respond in a situation in which minutes could determine survival. The accident happened, as accidents will, in the kitchen. Mix deep fat frying, a three-year-old and an twenty-three- month- old, and a dangling power cord. Curiosity drove the children to watch, and although they had been whisked away by older siblings, Jennifer made it back. Struggling to see the action, she tried to lift herself by. the power cord, pulling a vat of boiling oil toward her. Quick action had her dunked into a sink of cold water immediately. But the oil had covered on cheek, across her left shoulder and along her left side. A local doctor --not the family doctor who lived fifteen miles away -- responded within minutes. The ambulance arrived soon after. Summoned from work' where I was putting the Saturday paper to bed, I arrived home to see her carried to the ambulance by one of the attendants, who would cradle her gently for the fifty-mile ride to London. I followed, beating the ambulance to the hospital by several minutes. The first doctor we saw was not optimistic. "She WITH OUR FEET UP by Bill Swan 19 YEARS AGO..... has third degree burns to one-third of her body," she said. "The first twenty-four hours will be the most critical." It was only later --much later, fortunately -- that I realized we had just been told that Jennifer might die. That took place on Saturday, July 19; and while we set up a vigil that night with a girl wrapped in the cocoon of her own space suit, the rest of the world waited for Apollo 11 to land on the moon. But thirty-odd hours after the accident we were told to go home and wait, rest, that Jennifer was resting fine and would need us more in the morrow. Still propelled by the adrenaline of fear, I drove home the fifty miles, sat up to watch the moon walk. At 10:56 p.m. Neil Armstrong bounced tentatively on the Lunar Lander ladder, and then dipped one toe on the moon's surface. "That's one small step for....man, one giant leap for mankind." PR consultant blamed the flawed transmission, but most of us recognized what had happend: Neil Armstrong had flubbed his lines. I made a salami sandwich, drank cold iilk and at 4 a.m. wrote the lead editorial for the next day's newspaper. I slept an hour, then headed for a full ten-hour day at work. My sense of perspective was a bit distorted. Over the next seven weeks I drove daily to London, to spend as much time as possible with a girl who lay smothered in wraps, at first only her brown eyes showing to the world. Through th masks and gowns of the isolation ward -- the danger of infection always lingered -- we invented new ways to say "I love you" to a girl who loved to hug and kiss. We sang 'Peter Pointers' with a girl whose hands were encased in bandages. Where was Peter Pointer?' r's in here, I's in here,' she sang' holding out her muffled fist. I played hours of finger walking games around the edge of the steel crib, and told stories by the hours. One day an ambulance drew up under Jennifer's window. I stood at the window, looking down. I saw the attendants scramble, desperate, throwing open the doors and gently pulling out a stretcher on which lay a still, small form of a child. They disappeared, but as Jenny slept I waited. Then emerged one of the ambulance attendants, slowly, pushing the stretcher before him, his head bowed, his shoulders weary. From four floors above I knew his defeat. I did not need the brilliant red smear over the white stretcher to tell me that someone's child did not make it. I turned to Jenny with tears. She had awakened while I watched, and now her dark eyes danced. "Hi!" she said. It was a moment greater than a million moon walks. If guards can't be hired, Town will remove school crossings If the Town of Whitby cannot- hire crossing guards for a school crossing, it will remove the crossing until a guard. is found, council has decided. A survey of the 26 guards the Town now has for 21 crossings, shows that 15 are returning next year, three are undecided and eight have indicated they will not return to the job. The Town is having difficulty hiring guards so lias decided to remove the crossings. Some of the crossings expected to be removed in September because guards are leaving are at Henry and Dunlop, Garden and Blair, Manning and Thickson, Baldwin and Roebuck, Sawdon and Kendalwood, and Thickson. and Bellwood During the summer, council will begin a campaign to recruit new guards and "improve the public's outlook towards guards." The public works department will also study conditions under which guards work and how they can be improved. "Far too often this is scuffed off as an off-handed job. It is a very important function and respon- sible position," said Mayor Bob Attersley. The department will also meet with other lakeshore municipal- ities, Durham Regional Police and the two school boards to see how the problems can be resolved.