Heroes

It has been a long day. Despite a nasty flare of shin splints from my overenthusiastic march up the hill this weekend, I managed to get my aching body up on the treadmill while I watched the news this morning. I was beyond disappointed to miss the Space Shuttle launch a few days ago after two cancelations due to thunderstorms but was delighted to discover I was up in time to see it land today. I whispered my own familiar prayer for this particular occasion as it pierced through the clouds at 200 miles per hour and began its descent into a surprisingly graceful, perfect landing. I always wonder how the men and women inside feel upon coming home. I always foster an odd sense of excitement when I see these strangers return. I suppose they are heroes to the little girl in me.

I remember my parents getting me and my little brother out of our beds in the pitch black hours of early morning one day in 1981 to witness the Space Shuttle Columbia take off for the first time on television. I was only 10. It rumbled into space after an eerie-sounding, faceless voice counted down. At the time, I did not grasp how significant that event was, although I now cherish that memory very much. When I was 16, I was sitting in my English class in utter agony with overtightened braces when another television was suddenly wheeled in on a creaky AV cart, repeatedly playing the sickening, fiery crash of the Space Shuttle Challenger. A school staff member announced the tragedy over the loudspeaker. That was another day I will never forget. Over the years, my father gathered our family on the back deck more than once to see if we could spot orbiting shuttles passing overhead, and we did indeed see them glistening as they made their way across the black, star-studded expanse of desert sky, right on schedule. Years later, Brian and I were on our honeymoon cruise in 2001 preparing to board a small boat headed to Catalina Island one dreary morning when the Shuttle Endeavour flew over and broke the sound barrier, creating an earth-shaking sonic boom. My heart pounded, and I smiled broadly up into the fog and clouds, announcing to the strangers around me, “There it goes.” I knew exactly what that sound was above the thick layer of coastal weather. One morning two years into our marriage, I grimly announced to my sleeping husband that I had just heard the news Challenger had been “lost.” We turned on the television and watched in horror as they reported the discovery of debris and human remains scattered over miles of Texas terrain. Part of my childhood was now undeniably truly only a memory. I now watch every takeoff and landing when possible, which is easier these days now that this town provides more than two grainy television channels. I am predictably afflicted with chills, goosebumps, and watering eyes each time as I watch that magnificent, macho machine thrust upward on a bulging column of smoke, gas, and vapor. I watch in silent awe until there is no further news coverage offered, well after the crowds at the launch site are headed back to their cars and the shuttle is no longer visible. I’m simply addicted. This piece of history has seemingly always been entwined in the background of my life, no matter where I have been or what I have been doing. I consider my interest in a lot of things in my life such as this a precious gift from my parents, who took the time to drag two sleepy, confused kids out of their beds to create memories they likely wondered would be appreciated in the future.

I hope I will get to drag Erik out of bed someday at some ungodly hour of morning to cuddle with his old mom on the couch and watch this awesome spectacle, our sleepy faces aglow with the flickering light of our television. Maybe he would like that as much as I did as a kid. I will at least give him the opportunity to find out. I have to admit that I am really looking forward to that.