Remembering Challenger

Twenty-five years ago today, the Space Shuttle Challenger came apart and exploded 73 seconds after launch, raining the ocean in a shower of debris, taking from us the lives of 7 courageous men and women: Commander Francis R. Scobee, Pilot Michael J. Smith, Mission Specialist Judith A. Resnik, Mission Specialist Ellison S. Onizuka, Mission Specialist Ronald E. McNair, Payload Specialist Gregory B. Jarvis, and Teacher in Space Christa Corrigan McAuliffe. This tragedy dealt a major blow to the false perception that manned space travel could be reduced to anything routine and safe. It never was "safe." But pushing the boundaries of the final frontier doesn't have to be safe to be worthy and worth doing.

The depth of my memories of that day have faded over time. I was in an 9th grade English class on that cold January morning (like it is anything but cold in North Dakota in January). Word filtered quickly down the hall, and we ran to one of the few television sets on top of a push cart to try to tune in to the NBC broadcast. Other than watching the available footage over and over, marvelling darkly at the understatement of the moment ("we have experienced a major malfunction"), most of that day has been lost to the recesses of my mind. I do remember President Reagan's address from the Oval Office, but that memory has been augmented by the wonders of YouTube. I remember the loss of Columbia much more clearly, but of course that wasn't all that long ago.

My hopes of getting my family down to a launch have pretty much been retired, as the final schedule just doesn't seem to work with our calendar. STS-133 (Discovery) is preparing to roll out to the pad for the final time, to launch February 24. STS-134 (Endeavour) launches for the last time April 19. Finally, in June, the launch of STS-135 (Atlantis) will bring the space shuttle era to a close, and quite likely the end of manned space flight for the foreseeable future.

Where NASA goes from here is still to be determined. One president casts a vision and the next cancels it. In an age of mounting national debt and increasingly polarized politics, USA manned space flight will stay grounded as we watch China and perhaps India pursue the moon. Without at least some latitude for privatization and entrepreneurship, we may spend our days looking back at the past while others pursue the future. Manned space flight is a luxury that has to give way to the burden of our debt and entitlements.

For the crew of STS-51-L, I raise the proverbial glass to you in memory and thanks. "We will never forget them, nor the last time we saw them, this morning, as they prepared for the journey and waved goodbye and 'slipped the surly bonds of earth' to 'touch the face of God.'"

My Fascist Cat

Have you ever been driving along a familiar stretch of road, and at some point on the journey you have a slight jolt of panic when you realize that you don't recall the past couple of miles? That feeling is similar to what I felt this afternoon, when I realized it had been a week since I last stopped to put pen to paper, as it were. Where have the last seven days gone?

Work responsibilities and assignments are picking up, and once again the pinewood derby season is in full swing: these perhaps account for portions of the missing week. Peeing felines, typical household chores, and a delightful dinner date with my wife were also highlighting events, although I must say that there is a dramatic difference between enjoying a meal at Outback and having to stick my nose in a couch cushion to see if I could still smell pee from a suddenly territorial and bullying cat. Ahem, perhaps it is now time to redeem this post from the litter box of history, to a more genteel level of discourse.

I also took time this week to finish a book I started a few months ago by Frances Stoner Saunders, entitled The Woman Who Shot Mussolini. In her work, Saunders investigates the life of the Honorable Violet Gibson, daughter of Edward Gibson, Baron Ashbourne, Lord Chancellor of Ireland (1837-1913). Violet Gibson, for reasons known only to her, conceived and undertook a daring attempt to assassinate Benito Mussolini in 1926 Rome. She missed, clipping him only on the nose, and was thereby thwarted in what could have been a striking redirection of history. The failed attempt further secured the megalomaniacal rise of Mussolini and his brand of Italian fascism in the era between the first two world wars. Remarkably, Ms. Gibson was not executed, being instead declared insane and deported back to a British mental asylum for the rest of her life.

What I enjoyed most about the book was the way the author weaved in so many threads and colors of the period, such as the early adoration that Western leaders - including Churchill - had for Mussolini as the "Savior of Italy," the politics of the elite aristocracy and their fascination with fascism and socialism, an outbreak of Irish nationalism, and the prevailing ideas of psychiatry and the treatment of those who were truly mentally ill (and the scandal that many who were committed to such lunatic asylums suffered from nothing more severe than having "wrong political ideas," weak constitutions, and occasional bouts of depression). Indeed, some well-to-do families took advantage of the system to get rid of their more "socially unacceptable" relations. The book leaves open the question as to whether Gibson was as mentally ill as she was purported to be. Me, while I suspect some level of dissociative disorder, there seems to be plenty of evidence of a politically savvy and perceptive woman. This picture of Gibson, and whatever mental instability she may have had, was laid next to a picture of the narcissistic and paranoid Mussolini, leading one to wonder just who was in greater need of psychological attention.

This is what I love about history. There are so many influences pressing together at a moment in time, that while we can look at the basic facts of a single missed shot, the tapestry is far more complex, and far more telling, when taken as a whole. So while it is tempting to position the magnifying glass or the microscope over a single point of color, like a Seurat, it is worth the time to step back and view the brighter colors of the whole.

January 17, 1991

War. It is remarkable, in a way, that our preoccupation with ongoing conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan the past 10 years remains uneasy. Perhaps it just goes to show that try as we might, we cannot compartmentalize everything. All of us are only a few degrees of separation - if that - from a very personal connection to the wars we fight. We go on living life, as we should, but the shadow that at times seems utterly detached from our personal reality continues to hover nearby. I am glad for it, because it is important to remember, to retain the intermingled awareness of guilt and gratitude for those who keep watch on the battlements, in the skies, and across enemy lines.

The new academic quarter had started at Auburn, and after a week or so, I was just settling into a new schedule and routine. For months, the troops had been deploying to Saudi Arabia, preparing to force Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait. B-52 bomber squadrons were also sent abroad, some to operate out of the island territory of Diego Garcia. Everyone within my safe little bubble knew that war was coming, yet still we were caught off guard on that cool January evening when the air campaign began. Classes done for the day, I had run by Hardees to grab a quick bite to eat on my way to the student center to play a little basketball. I flipped on the radio, expecting music, but instead heard the voice of Peter Jennings providing coverage of the aerial assault. I drove while transfixed, even in shock, until I reached the parking lot. I sat there for a while, before turning it off and heading inside. Everywhere I turned, you could see students spreading the news: "It's started." We played our game of hoops, but our hearts weren't in it. Our thoughts were far away. My thoughts were with my dad, serving at Diego Garcia as a mission planner and B-52 navigator.

Being at college, I felt a million miles away from my family, and frequent phone calls and letters from abroad, while treasured, did little to bridge that gap that I felt so acutely every day during that conflict. I still had to go to class, I still had to go through the routines, engaging in relationships with friends. CNN was one of those "friends," at least for a time. Each community had its own unique way of expressing solidarity with those deployed in the fight, but of course the most common of these was the yellow ribbon. In those days, we didn't have the nice, stylish magnetic ribbons that people stick on their cars and trucks today - and indeed, has been copycatted so many times for so many "causes" that the sentiment loses something in the repetition. After the war started, I went down to K-Mart and bought myself some good, old-fashioned yellow ribbon, cut a 12-inch piece and tied it to the antenna of my Ford Fairmont. There it flew for months, until the war was over and the majority of our service men and women had come home, including my father. Severely weather-worn, it crossed my mind only briefly to discard it - a thought I am sure was dismissed in less than a second. Instead, I affixed the ribbon to a small American flag I'd picked up somewhere, and put it in a stand on my desk. Twenty years later, that same flag and that same tattered yellow ribbon sits on my desk at my office. I have been asked only twice in twenty years about my humble display. It serves me well, reminding me not only of the sacrifices of yesterday's wars, but those of today. It reminds me of the agonizing hours and days I spent weighing the call to military service (both before college and again following the start of the Gulf War). It reminds me of the gratitude I have toward those that did answer that call. It reminds me of my indebtedness to those who willingly stand in the gap to ensure our freedom.

Twenty years. A lifetime that seems like only yesterday.

And on the 7th Day …

The snow finally began to melt apace. The field behind the house is still a plain of white, but on the hill the grass is beginning at last to reappear from beneath the snow. In spots, it still measures a couple of inches. Friday, we finally saw the temperature rise above freezing, and today it is a pleasant 46 degrees (with a chance of freezing rain in the early morning, of course).

The boys made a wonderful time of it all, being held out of school for the entire week. The roads were iffy through Wednesday, but improved in the days afterward. However, the school parking lots and several neighborhoods were still subject to ice, which (for North Alabama) causes safety issues. So after 4 days back at school following the holidays, the return to routine suffered a serious blow. What's more, school is out again tomorrow for MLK. I suffered a bout of cabin fever, and slid my way into work on Thursday and Friday. I still feel quite out of sorts, and long for our typically crazy, but predictable schedule.

Tuesday, with any luck, we will reboot the routine and get this year on track.

War Eagle! National Champions 22-19!

 Auburn Wins! 

I was there for perfection in 1993 as a student, as Auburn marched to a probation limited, 11-0 season. In 2004, I again saw perfection as Auburn amazed with a 13-0 season, only to be denied a chance to play in the big game. Tonight, for the 3rd time in 18 years, I saw perfection again. And while not always pretty, 14-0 and the first national championship in 53 years - the 2010 Auburn Tigers won it all and take home the crystal.

I believe in Auburn, and I love it!

Snow of the Century

For North Alabama, I'm not exaggerating too much with a title like that. I was here in 1993, when it snowed 7+ inches and shut down the area for almost 4 days. Starting around 9pm last night and continuing through mid-morning today, we got hit with almost 9 inches of snow. 9! Shortly after it began, it was coming down over an inch per hour. School was out today, and is already cancelled for tomorrow. It has been incredible. Combined with Christmas, we've had 13 inches of snow at my house this winter. In Alabama! Unreal.

We did some sledding, built a big snowman, and had a good time. Nine inches of snow makes a big difference with the performance of the sledding, as compared to the fun we had last February. It wasn't all fun: I elected to go ahead and shovel the driveway. Given the likelihood of a slow melt over the next week, I figured it would be better to shovel the sloped driveway now rather than let it get too icy. It was a nice workout, to say the least.

Here's a small sampling of the pictures we've taken. Enjoy! Click each to enlarge.

On Revising Huck Finn

In the original game of Trivial Pursuit, the brown pie piece represented the category covering Arts & Literature. I've often toyed with appropriating those categories for my own use on this blog, because sometimes the topics I cover don't fit within the categories I have. Today's Arts & Literature question (for the brown pie piece) is a subjective one: Does the publication of a revised Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to remove a certain offensive racial term detract from its overall value and importance as a major work of American literature?

According to Publisher's Weekly, NewSouth Books plans to release a new edition of Mark Twain's classic that removes all references to the notorious "n-word." (Yes, let's just get this out of the way: I see no reason to type out a word that I personally don't use. I don't mind being called a squish on this one). The primary intent (besides making a little extra money) is to reintroduce Twain's controversial work back into schools and libraries that have banned the book over the last several decades. Admittedly, it has been over 25 years since I read Huckleberry Finn, so I had to peek at its page on Wikipedia to refresh my memory on its major themes.

In principle, I am generally opposed to the attempt to alter an original work by one of the most acclaimed American authors. Twain's works were often controversial because the man himself was controversial. He held very strong views on a number of subjects, and his works were in part designed to illustrate those views through entertaining storytelling. Indeed, it is the controversial nature of Finn that necessitates its inclusion in the classroom, because the debate it engenders forces a hard look at the values of yesterday, against which the values of today can be compared (or contrasted). (Indeed, the hardest book I've ever read on racial topics was Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man. Hard, but eye-opening). If we whitewash the fence (ahem) that is Huckleberry Finn, we risk doing to Twain the same thing that has happened to Jonathan Swift's Gulliver's Travels. Few of us think of Swift's work as the satire and parody it was written to be. The context, without educational aids and discussion, is lost to us. Twain's work is not so far gone, but there are those who would just as soon see Twain disappear behind a vault as mysteriously as did Disney's Song of the South. Granted, not all works have redeeming value in and of themselves, but works that expose life as it was (and is) can be redeemed in the sense of what we learn from them. Twain could have softened his vernacular, yet he did not. From an artistic standpoint, what matters most is not just the words he used, but the story and the commentary he wanted to convey.

However, if by some chance this scrubbed edition of Huckleberry Finn changes the minds of book-banning administrators (still a difficult challenge, I think), then the question remains, will it detract from a substantive review and discussion in the classroom? I used to read through various volumes of the Reader's Digest abridged books. I did not know what I was missing because honestly, how could I know? I remember as a preteen reading an abridged Robinson Crusoe, but until a few years ago did not fathom just how much of the book's heart was actually "abridged." If Finn is exposed to the intellect of a new generation in a serious way, is that not a good thing even if the artistic vernacular is watered down so as to be less offensive? I'd like to be a steadfast purist on this, but I confess that I take a contrarian position with movies on TV that contain dubbed-over dialog. Such editing allows me to watch these movies with my kids, whereas I would be much less likely to allow them to watch the same in their original released format (until they are older anyway). With the dubbed-over language, the movies are more accessible to a broader audience. Therefore it is not such a stretch to think the same argument can apply to a book like Huckleberry Finn.

In the end, I find myself coming back to the position of the textual purist. While I can acknowledge the incongruity of taking this position with my leanings in the preceding paragraph, I believe we do a disservice to Twain's legacy to take his work and refashion it in our own image to fit our modern sensitivities. Although, if the author were alive today, I don't doubt for a moment that he might himself amend it if doing so helped him sell more books (he wasn't exactly proficient at managing money). It just seems to me to be an infringement on the artist's original intent. Still, if the end result of this new edition is that Huckleberry Finn finds itself in the hands of a greater number of students than before, I'll certainly find it difficult to grieve over such a perpetuation of a classic of American literature.