Columbia: Etched in Memory
Hugh Neeld is a freelance columnist for TylerPaper.com.
Saturday, Feb. 1, 2003 was another of those "where were you when you heard about it dates" — dates of historical events that remain permanently etched in memory.
Two large scale models of the Columbia space shuttle are part of a temporary NASA exhibit in Nacogdoches commemorating the fifth anniversary of the shuttle disaster, a large part of which occurred over East Texas. It is open to the public until Feb. 10 next door to Nacogdoches City Hall.
Does the fact that the Columbia Shuttle disaster happened in our own backyard just five years ago some how impact us more greatly, or make our feelings more intense? I don’t think so. When Kennedy was assassinated, when the space shuttle Challenger exploded on take off, when the Federal building in Oklahoma City was blown up, and on Sept. 11, my feelings would have been the same, wherever I lived. And today, regardless of where I lived, the Columbia disaster would not weigh less heavily on my heart.
What has been written and said about those seven brave, young astronauts was far more eloquent than I could possibly be, but I felt compelled to try to say something meaningful.
We know that these seven astronauts were a special group — daring, intelligent, fit,
spirited men and women. They understood that space flight was dangerous, but they were willing to risk death. In their pre-flight interviews, they stressed the good that space science can do for medicine and other fields on Earth. And that’s true. But in his or her heart, each also felt that to fly into space is to be a pioneer of human history. Each felt they were a part of something larger than themselves, something noble and inspiring. The underlying, most common bond, though, was love of flight. Above all, they loved to fly.
spirited men and women. They understood that space flight was dangerous, but they were willing to risk death. In their pre-flight interviews, they stressed the good that space science can do for medicine and other fields on Earth. And that’s true. But in his or her heart, each also felt that to fly into space is to be a pioneer of human history. Each felt they were a part of something larger than themselves, something noble and inspiring. The underlying, most common bond, though, was love of flight. Above all, they loved to fly.
With that in mind, I searched out a favorite poem I first became acquainted with many years ago. It seemed so appropriate. "High Flight" is the name of it and it was written by John Gillespie Magee, Jr., an American pilot with the Royal Canadian Air Force.
Magee came to the United States in 1939 and earned a scholarship to Yale, but in 1940 enlisted in the RCAF. He was sent to England for combat duty in July 1941. That September, he composed "High Flight" and sent a copy to his parents. On Dec. 11, 1941, his plane collided with another and Magee, age 19, crashed to his death.
This is his poem, "High Flight," courtesy of the USAF Museum, and offered as a tribute to the crew of Columbia:
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, and danced the skies on
laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds
And done a hundred things you have not dreamed of—
wheeled and soared and swung. High in the sunlit silence, hovering
there, I’ve chased the shouting wind along.
And flung my eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue, I’ve topped the wind-swept
heights with easy grace, where never Lark or even Eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod, the high untrespassed
sanctity of space, put out my hand and touched the face of God.
A question to ponder:
“Does courage consist not in blindly overlooking danger, but in conquering it?”
putterhugh@suddenlink.net
Hugh Neeld is a freelance columnist for TylerPaper.com.
laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds
And done a hundred things you have not dreamed of—
wheeled and soared and swung. High in the sunlit silence, hovering
there, I’ve chased the shouting wind along.
And flung my eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue, I’ve topped the wind-swept
heights with easy grace, where never Lark or even Eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod, the high untrespassed
sanctity of space, put out my hand and touched the face of God.
A question to ponder:
“Does courage consist not in blindly overlooking danger, but in conquering it?”
putterhugh@suddenlink.net
Hugh Neeld is a freelance columnist for TylerPaper.com.
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