by John McGran
eDiets Editor-in-Chief
I was sitting back in my family room recliner, watching Saturday morning cartoons while my children played nearby when my wife came downstairs and ordered me to turn on MSNBC. A chill ran down my spine and my stomach turned as I realized the space shuttle Columbia had vanished minutes before its scheduled landing.
If someone had asked me a day earlier whether or not an American crew was streaking across the heavens, I would have had to admit I did not know. Once again, shuttle missions had become error-free excursions into the inner reaches of outer space. Events like the Super Bowl and even my day-to-day duties as a father and editor-in-chief of eDiets had become much more important to me.
I don't blame NASA for making shuttle missions appear "boring" to the laymen like me. No, I think it was more a matter of -- to borrow a phrase from the PGA -- these guys are good. Yes, our space travelers and the men and women who guide them off the ground and fetch them home are the best of the best. The Challenger Disaster of '86 had awakened us to the dangers of manned space exploration. But 17 years later, our minds were slumbering again because the space program was running on all eight cylinders.
But then came the morning of February 1, 2003...
There's nothing like tragedy to make you feel empathy for the victims and their families. The vivid images of the shuttle craft disintegrating over the southern United States will forever burn brightly in my mind. So too will the names and faces of the seven who perished with the Columbia: flight commander Rick Husband, pilot William McCool, mission specialist Kalpana Chawla, payload commander Michael Anderson, mission specialist David Brown, mission specialist Laurel Clark and payload specialist Ilan Ramon. Rest in peace.
They tell us Columbia broke apart while traveling a mind-boggling 12,500 miles per hour (18 times the speed of sound) and that the craft was exposed to a hellish temperature of 3,000 degrees during its fall from space.
I have a hard enough time these days riding an amusement park roller coaster. Just the thought of being strapped inside the tight confines of a shuttle make my chest tighten and anxiety rise. Thank God there are daring men and women willing to accept such missions.
I'm not ashamed to say I've shed tears for the Columbia 7. Yesterday, I managed to remain squirreled away in my home office while my wife stood in our kitchen watching the special memorial service from the Johnson Space Center. I only ambled out as the ceremony was coming to a close. But it was enough to make my eyes well with tears and my heart to feel heavy.
In closing, I'd like to share with you a little poem... a few simple words that zoomed into my head not long after the Columbia tore apart and tore me up. I am not a poet, never have been. But a force within wanted me to share this with you. Thanks for reading this poem I call The Short Goodbye.
The Short Goodbye
Sky...
try...
fly...
high...
Oh, my!
Awry...
die...
sigh...
goodbye.
Oh, why?