Frozen in Time

January 27, 1967. I was ten years old. I was one of those geek kids who was completely enamored with the space program. These were the days when they still wheeled the big television set into the classroom so we could watch take-offs and landings. On this day I was in the living room, laying on my stomach with my head propped up on my arms, watching television with my parents. I forget what show we were watching; it might have been the evening news but I really am not sure. What I remember is the station cutting into the program we were watching. There had been an accident at The Cape, and some astronauts may have been injured. We waited by the television while further reports trickled in. Finally, it was confirmed. Three astronauts had lost their lives during a training exercise. I remember my mother crying. My father was silent. I was devastated. I knew that my heroes could die, but that wasn’t the same as knowing three had died. I had a lot to reconcile myself to in the days that followed. My respect for the space program was never stronger than when I saw how it had affected the NASA family though. Even at that young age, I knew I was witnessing a rare and special bond.

January 28, 1986. I was 29 years old. I had taken the day off from work, and slept in. About lunchtime I set off to return a Beta video tape I’d rented the day before. I had checked before I left the house, and none of the local stations were covering the Challenger take-off, so I decided to listen to it on the radio as I drove to the video store. The Challenger launched as I turned into the video store’s parking lot. By the time I’d found a parking place, they knew something was wrong, but couldn’t say what. I sat and listened in the car, waiting for something more definitive. Then I remembered that the video store had televisions, and it was likely that the stations would be belatedly covering the launch events. I rushed in. The store was playing some Molly Ringwald movie (it might have been Sixteen Candles, but don’t hold me to that). When I told them what was on the news, they shut down the movie and tuned in the local news. I watched for perhaps ten minutes, but there was still no real word about what had happened. So I returned my tape and drove to my parents house about five miles away. I sat at the kitchen table with them most of the afternoon, watching the reports come in and drinking Lipton tea. My mother kept saying how they shouldn’t have sent a civilian, a teacher, on a mission yet. My dad didn’t say much, but his eyes seldom left the screen. When they showed the clips of the kids at McAuliffe’s school, I nearly started crying and went back to my house. That evening the news showed the piles of flowers, letters, and mementos that had been left at NASA’s gates by a grieving community. The news showed the faces of the people in mission control as they stayed by their stations during the launch, still working but obviously in pain. I was again impressed with the obvious feeling of family and community among people who worked together at NASA.

February 1, 2003. I am 46 years old. I woke up yesterday at about 10:00 a.m. and booted up my computer nearly first thing. The Socialist lay sleeping in bed as I picked up my email and perused Dear Diary. I knew the shuttle was currently in space, but didn’t know its mission schedule. There was an update to one of my favorite diarists, and I went there almost immediately after scanning my mail. That was the first clue I had that something was wrong. I went downstairs and turned on one of the news stations. They were replaying the reentry tape of the shuttle. The bits and pieces being shed from it as it sped through the sky told the entire story. I really didn’t need to wait for the President’s address, hours later, to tell me the shuttle was gone and the crew lost. I watched in disbelief as the news showed some of the debris from the shuttle that was scattered throughout Texas. A clearly identifiable tile from the heat shield. A bent piece of metal, charred and weirdly serrated. A huge puddle of molten something in the middle of a vast horse pasture, its size only truly apparent when I noticed the two men and the dog walking around one end of it while horses passed warily by at the edge of the picture. Miles of yellow police tape, cordoning off hundreds of clues to a tragic mystery. Then they showed a mission patch, face up in some grass. I turned away from the television at that point. I couldn’t turn it off; I felt I somehow owed the seven people who had been vaporized the courtesy of my time and attention. But I couldn’t look anymore. Later, they showed the people in mission control, as they packed into the control room to hear the President’s message to the nation. That community from the sixties, from the eighties … it still exists as strong as ever. I wish the people of NASA, and the families who have mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, children who are never coming home again, the strength of each other’s mutual support. And I hope they understand that a nation is truly grieving with them.

Where was I when Kennedy was shot? I was in school, but I don’t have a detailed recollection of learning of his assassination, just memories of being sent home early. What do I remember of the day of the Oklahoma bombing? I remember being shocked and wondering what on earth anyone hoped to accomplish by such and act, but I’m afraid I couldn’t even give you the date it happened without looking it up. Do I remember anything about the day I heard the news that O.J. Simpson had been arrested for the murder of his estranged wife? Not a thing.

We are all affected more by certain news than other news. When an event like September 11th happens, then we all are profoundly affected and we all have our own personal stories to tell. But, for me, the courage of the men and women who are taking the first steps into space has always been a thing to inspire awe. My heart has always rejoiced with their victories, been frustrated during times of lack of support and funding by our government, and saddened when one of the heroes of my youth such as Charles Conrad or Alan Shepard leaves this mortal coil. Some people will always know where they were at the time Kennedy was shot, or when the lights went out in New York City. Me? I’ll always know what I was doing the moment I got news of the Columbia.

Tomorrow it is supposed to stop raining here. I will light seven candles, and set them outside my doorway. I wish I could do more.