lws@hou2d.UUCP (lwsamocha) (02/10/86)
With criticism being leveled at television coverage, NASA, et al, I find it quite striking that the print media writers have waxed so well. Below is an example. Reprinted here without permission- An article by Bill Earls, freelance Connecticut writer Special to the Asbury Park Press, February 10, 1986 In the sadness of Challenger's fiery end it's important to remember that it's not really the astronauts we're crying for. It's ourselves. You don't cry for people who knew the risks, and said, "The risk is worth it." For people who died doing what they wanted to. Most of us die a little at a time. Watching interviews with McAuliffe, McNair, Resink and all the others, looking at their credentials- The Ph.Ds, flight hours, the honors, the incredible competence- it was impossible not to admire them. Impossible not to identify with them. How much they were like us. We're the same age. Had the same chances, went to the same schools. We were good athletes, took piano, wanted to fly. We thrilled to John Glenn just as Scobee and Smith did. Were just as touched by JFK's "Ask not..." speech, just as hurt by King's death... And we though we could make a difference, too. Do something under the blue ribbon with the white stars, our name on the Pulitzer rolls, our number in Canton or Cooperstown, our book on the best seller list. Now we're copy editors, remembering the novel we haven't touched in years; a Chevy mechanic, wishing we'd taken that ROTC scholarship; a corporate lawyer, bored with brief after brief, looking with pain at the college crew photo; a teacher or mail carrier or factory worker keeping model airplanes in a drawer next to old yearbooks and a faded letter sweater. We get trapped by pension plans and Blue Cross, mortgages and timidity. We don't exercise as much, walk where we use to run. We weigh ideas, evaluate things, wonder what people will think, are careful not to offend, think of the long term, of security... And the dreams go after a while. The hope spills out like the lining from ripped teddy bears... and after a while we even forget we had the dreams. We learn to mistrust dedication, forget that we once worked though the night, studied until our eyes were read, believed that we were special. Instead we find "Dallas," the Super Bowl and a beer or two after work with the other people just like us. Friday flows into the weekend. January fades into July and 1968 becomes 1986 and we get old and the dreams get farther away... And the Glenns and the Kings and the Kennedys give way to a new pantheon of heroes- Madonnas and Rambos and McEnroes and a gaggle of tawdry imitators. And then- thank God- something like the crew of Challenger reminds us of what we can be, what the species is capable of, what "a piece of work is man..." And they were just like us. Almost. We wish our own lives could be that dedicated, our own end that clean and swift. And if most of us had a choice, we'd take and ending that dramatic- if we, too, had a life that purposeful. In a fair world, the Challenger Seven would have returned, shared with us what they've seen and what they've done, accepted the plaudits and honors they had coming. But we know the world isn't fair. Never was. And in that unfairness we're reminded again of what a real heroism is; working to our limits, knowing the risk, saying the risk is worth it. And, perhaps more important, we're reminded what each of us is capable of. The tears are for us. Has anyone else come across these tributes?
berry@tolerant.UUCP (David Berry) (02/13/86)
> With criticism being leveled at television coverage, NASA, et al, > I find it quite striking that the print media writers > have waxed so well. Below is an example. > > Reprinted here without permission- > An article by Bill Earls, freelance Connecticut writer > Special to the Asbury Park Press, February 10, 1986 > > > In the sadness of Challenger's fiery end it's important to > remember that it's not really the astronauts we're crying for. > > It's ourselves. > > You don't cry for people who knew the risks, and said, "The risk is worth it." > > For people who died doing what they wanted to. > > Most of us die a little at a time. > > Watching interviews with McAuliffe, McNair, Resink and all the others, looking > at their credentials- The Ph.Ds, flight hours, the honors, the incredible > competence- it was impossible not to admire them. > > Impossible not to identify with them. How much they were like us. > > We're the same age. Had the same chances, went to the same schools. We > were good athletes, took piano, wanted to fly. > > We thrilled to John Glenn just as Scobee and Smith did. Were just as touched > by JFK's "Ask not..." speech, just as hurt by King's death... > > And we though we could make a difference, too. Do something under the > blue ribbon with the white stars, our name on the Pulitzer rolls, our number > in Canton or Cooperstown, our book on the best seller list. > > Now we're copy editors, remembering the novel we haven't touched in years; > a Chevy mechanic, wishing we'd taken that ROTC scholarship; a corporate > lawyer, bored with brief after brief, looking with pain at the college crew > photo; a teacher or mail carrier or factory worker keeping model airplanes > in a drawer next to old yearbooks and a faded letter sweater. > > We get trapped by pension plans and Blue Cross, mortgages and timidity. We > don't exercise as much, walk where we use to run. We weigh ideas, evaluate > things, wonder what people will think, are careful not to offend, think > of the long term, of security... > > And the dreams go after a while. > > The hope spills out like the lining from ripped teddy bears... and after > a while we even forget we had the dreams. We learn to mistrust dedication, > forget that we once worked though the night, studied until our eyes were > read, believed that we were special. > > Instead we find "Dallas," the Super Bowl and a beer or two after work > with the other people just like us. Friday flows into the weekend. January > fades into July and 1968 becomes 1986 and we get old and the dreams get > farther away... > > And the Glenns and the Kings and the Kennedys give way to a new pantheon > of heroes- Madonnas and Rambos and McEnroes and a gaggle of tawdry imitators. > > And then- thank God- something like the crew of Challenger reminds > us of what we can be, what the species is capable of, > what "a piece of work is man..." > > And they were just like us. > > Almost. > > We wish our own lives could be that dedicated, our own end that clean and > swift. And if most of us had a choice, we'd take and ending that dramatic- > if we, too, had a life that purposeful. > > In a fair world, the Challenger Seven would have returned, shared with us what > they've seen and what they've done, accepted the plaudits and honors they had > coming. > > But we know the world isn't fair. > > Never was. > > And in that unfairness we're reminded again of what a real heroism is; > working to our limits, knowing the risk, saying the risk is worth it. > > And, perhaps more important, we're reminded what each of us is capable of. > > The tears are for us. > Hear, Hear! -- David W. Berry dwb@well.UUCP Delphi: dwb {ucbvax,pyramid,idsvax,bene,oliveb}!tolerant!berry I'm only here for the beer.