Shallow Meditations, one day after

[pameladean]

But hey, it's my journal, I'll be late if I want to.

I was awakened at 11:35 on Saturday morning by a telephone call. J wanted to know if I wanted a ride to the Romance Exchange. We arranged timing. I got up, collected medication and a glass of water. No bananas. I put a piece of bread in the toaster and went to look at my email. The Minn-Stf Natter list had a thread about the space shuttle Columbia. Oh, I thought, did they find out something cool?

No. Well, maybe, but not the way I meant it. Oh God no, no no no, not again, I thought. The image of the Challenger rose to my mind's eye. I expect I'll see that on the day I die. But yes, it was again. I looked at Teresa's weblog, and then Patrick's, the links to which told me at least as much as I wanted to know. David and Lydy were gone, having a complicated series of errands to conduct before the Minn-Stf meeting. Raphael was not up yet. What a good thing there's a meeting today, I thought; people can talk to each other about it.

Thanks to kightp's pointer, I'd been reading a lot of war poetry, and I thought of one I had not read recently; I first encountered it in Anthony Price's OTHER PATHS TO GLORY. They shall not grow old as we who are left grow old. I bet they'd have liked to, I thought. I thought too, as I almost always do when thinking about either war or science, of the guy who spent weeks with his head up a tree in some remote hot jungle, studying altruism in vampire bats. His article came out in SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN the month the Gulf War started. What is wrong with all these people, I thought, they would be much better employed lying about with their heads up trees, studying vampire bats, than rocketing all over the countryside killing people and taking their stuff. And indeed all the crew of Columbia were and are far better employed. The war poem kept haunting me, though. There's glory for you. No, really, I mean that.

I pulled myself together and made very careful plans about eating my cold toast, taking my drugs, medicating cats, showering, dressing, packing to go to Eric's later, putting the presents for the Romance Exchange crowd in a bag. When I was sure I was ready, it was 45 minutes til Jan was due to pick me up. I stared at the telephone. I wanted to call Eric. For comfort, because he probably didn't know, though he might, being in regular touch with a number of people who do keep up with the news. But he might not. He'd find out eventually. I didn't want to tell him. I wanted to talk to him. I called him. He hadn't known. I'd assembled such information as there was before I called, so I was able to tell him about the time, and the bit of insulation that hit the wing during takeoff, and the location of the debris, and the NOAA radar showing it. He asked who had been aboard, and I went back to Spaceflight Now and read him the names of the astronauts. That was good, but it made me cry. We talked about where we'd been when Challenger went. We talked about money for the space program, and for other things. He thanked me for calling, saying that he could think of no one he would rather hear bad news from, because I had the right attitude.

I composed a popup message for Raphael, saying something like, "Brace yourself before you go on the net; we've lost Columbia."

I went outside into a gray warm day, with wet sidewalks. Age shall not wither them nor the years condemn.

Pamela

Comments

[noveldevice.livejournal.com]

I found some little comfort yesterday in this thought:

I heard an interview with Rick Husband, done before the Columbia went up, in which the interviewer asked him, if something were to go wrong and he were to die, if it would have been worth it. Yes, he said. Absolutely.

So there is this. These men and women died doing what they loved best in the universe, coming back to their planet with scientific data and experiments on board which they knew would help to better all mankind. There is no good way to die, but there are much worse ways than this.

[papersky.livejournal.com]

At the going down of the sun and in the morning
we will remember them.

I can't believe you first read it in Other Paths to Glory, I heard that every Remembrance Day of my childhood, often read by my grandfather.

I remember reading about Scott's last expedition, and suddenly getting perspective on the timing and thinking that they went out there to die instead of having the sense to wait and die in the trenches. Then I wondered how would it have been instead if instead of having the Great War everyone had gone to Antarctica in little adventuring parties and trudged off into the ice, ill equipped. I don't suppose it would have done, really. Studying vampire bats is much more sensible.

[pameladean]

Veteran's Day and Memorial Day celebrations were completely absent from my childhood. Other people had them, but we didn't. My grandfathers did not, to my knowledge, fight in any wars. Both of them were diabetic, but I don't know if that was why. My father fought in Korea. It killed him, but not right away.

As for studying vampire bats being more sensible, it may be a little bit too sensible to take care of whatever impulses make people do stupid things. It has hardship, but I'm not sure it gets adrenaline going in most people the way Arctic exploration or war might. It's a pity.

Pamela

[pameladean]

Indeed, thank you, that is a comfort. Though it does highlight the extent to which I am not sad just for them, but for all of us.

Pamela

[kightp.livejournal.com]

I stared at the telephone. I wanted to call Eric. For comfort, because he probably didn't know, though he might, being in regular touch with a number of people who do keep up with the news. But he might not. He'd find out eventually. I didn't want to tell him. I wanted to talk to him.

I wanted to call johnpalmer for much the same reason. And did, and found out that he'd just e-mailed me out of identical motivation.

I react ... oddly ... to these things. I tend not to feel them personally, though I know many people who do. Even so, the first impulse is to reach for someone I love.

[hobbitbabe.livejournal.com]

the first impulse is to reach for someone I love.

I realized yesterday that one of the measures of our kids' approaching adulthood is that it's no longer necessarily we (the parents) who tell them bad news and who help them deal with it. J was off all day working on his ship, and M was away for the weekend at a debating tournament and visiting her grandmother. By the time they got home and talked to us, they'd already heard about the Challenger from other people and talked it over with other people. Neither of them called home when they heard. We're still important to them, but their lives are increasingly being lived in a wider sphere of influence. Gosh, I'm proud of them both

[pameladean]

I don't feel them as personally as some people do, but the space program is different for me.

Pamela

[pameladean]

Awww. I salute you all.

Pamela