The loss of the Challenger was somehow one of those moments everyone who lived through it seems to remember the same as 9-11 or, from what I have heard, the deaths of JFK and FDR. We all know exactly where we were when we learned the disaster had happened. Growing up in Florida, I was among those who had a front-row seat to the national tragedy.
My mother recalls watching the shuttle break apart on her way to lunch, not knowing what was going on until one of her students saw the splitting streaks of smoke and said 'Something is wrong.' I have a friend who recounted online today sitting with his first-grade class 30 miles from the launchpad and watching the shuttle go up, then turn into a fireball and crash back down.
I didn't watch it happen. My second-grade class at Beverly Shores Elementary had watched other launches, but this one occurred while we were at lunch. But we were all interested in the flight. My teacher had met Christa McAuliffe and we were planning to watch the video lessons the teacher would beam down to Earth. It was something we were all looking forward to, and living just an hour from Kennedy Space Center, the whole affair was something with which we were all connected in a more real way than, say, kids in Wisconsin.
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