The Space Shuttle Columbia

It's happened again.

I wasn't ready for it.

Nobody was.

No one ever will be.

We can hope and pray nothing like it will happen again.

But it will.

And again there will be no warning.

We've lost seven of the world's top individuals. The seven Columbia astronauts who perished last week have been called heros. Of course they were. How unfortunate that most pholks couldn't cite their names until after they died together almost instantly nearly 40 miles above earth at more than 12,000 miles per hour.

As we mourn their tragic deaths we must remember that the seven were heros in life, not because they died doing their jobs. Jobs they loved. Jobs which did not necessarily bring them fortune compared to what others at the tops of their professions.

We must remember that those chosen to be astronauts are the best of the best. Some are scientists. Some are test pilots or veterans of aerial combat. Some are medical experts, doctors, nurses, surgeons or space medicine researchers. Some are physicists. Dozens of other professions are counted among the ranks of past, present and future astronauts. But remember, they are the best of the best. They are of strong body, strong soul and strong mind.

I find it amazing the degree of poise and faith and personal strength shown by the family members of this disaster and of other recent national tragedies. Despite their grief and the unrelenting media attention, each and every family member has made it known their husband, son, daughter, father of mother, grandson or granddaughter died doing "what he (or she) loved." The seven astronauts were all extra-ordinary people. They have extra-ordinary families. That tells us all something.

This latest tragedy is yet another event which will etch itself in our minds. We will remember where we were when we first heard the news.

Personally, I was watching the early morning news when the it was first mentioned that contact with the Shuttle had been lost 16 minutes before scheduled touchdown. I knew immediately it was not good news. Seconds of lost direct communication with the shuttle on its return to Earth are routine and expected. So routine, it isn't noted these days. This was different.

Minutes later I choked with emotion as I saw video tape of multiple condensation trails of Columbia, I knew what had happened at least 10 minutes before any confirmation of the disaster was announced.

I remember where I was when the Challenger exploded a minute after launch. I know exactly where I was when President Kennedy was slain. I know precisely where I was on Sept.11, 2001.

I have always been fascinated by the "space race" as it was referred to almost immediately after the Russians launched Sputnik and America at first sputtered repeatedly until finding success and eventually getting to the moon.

I know precisely where I was when Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon. I watched the whole thing on television and spent at least an hour in the patio of my apartment with my roommates looking at the moon that night, knowing the American footsteps were on the lunar surface. I knew there was no way to see anything even with a great pair of binoculars. But I looked anyway.

Just a couple of years ago I stood several feet from three of the original astronauts at a ceremony at an air show. I got some good photos. I also got goose pimples.

This was more than 35 years after I wrote a high school term paper on the Atlas rocket, one of the most famous rockets of its day in the late 50's and early 60's.

Names such as John, Gus, Buzz, Neil, Scott, and Pete have special meaning for me. And on the last flight of Columbia, the Shuttle commander, Ron Husband, was an alumni of Fresno State University, my alma mater.

This past week those names and memories came into sharp focus for me--despite the wetness of my 58-year-old eyes.

But pholks, I know that when I sit out in the yard when the evenings get warmer, those same eyes will still be able to see the seven new stars in the heavens.

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