My Sunshine Away Read Online Free PDF
Author: M. O. Walsh
McAuliffe. She was the elementary school teacher chosen from more than twenty thousand applicants to accompany the astronauts into space, and she was a national hero. Their letter to her was simple, written in pencil on lined paper, and it thanked her for her bravery. In the weeks before takeoff, Mrs. McAuliffe had returned to the sixth-grade class an American flag and signed publicity photo of the entire crew, both of which were now hanging on a large bulletin board lined in red, white, and blue crepe paper. Our teachers gathered in front of it and chatted energetically. The whole place had the buzz of a holiday.
We drank fruit punch and ate cookies shaped like stars. We wore flag pins and sang the national anthem. We felt good, all of us did, and I had no way of knowing that the image of Mrs. Knight, my homeroom teacher, singing along in front of that flag would never leave me. She was a young woman with a bob haircut, although all teachers looked immensely old to me then, and she was a brunette. This was her first year teaching at the Perkins School, at any school, and it would be her last.
I remember that it was cold and dry that morning, oddly enough, as even January offers no promise of winter in Louisiana. I’ve spent Christmases in T-shirts, Thanksgivings in shorts and sneakers. On this day, however, we all wore pants and long-sleeved button-downs, and two rows across from me, sitting Indian-style on the carpet, Lindy Simpson wore a navy blue sweatshirt over her jumper.
I paid her no mind. I wanted to see the rocket.
When it came time for the countdown, our teachers turned up the volume on the television and asked us to pay attention. We stared like tourists at the shuttle in its launch position, filmed at long distance by a handheld camera. I remember the Kennedy Space Centerlooking completely deserted but for the craft: a white shuttle perched atop three cylindrical rocket boosters, the middle one some fifteen stories high and blood red. This was a good time in America. We were dreamers, teachers and students alike, all aboard that mission by patriotic proxy.
So, as the countdown began, we joined along. Our chorus swelled at T minus eight as smoke released from beneath the rocket in purposeful plumes. We then bellowed out the final “one” and watched the
Challenger
take off, heavy and miraculous, breaking away from the launch pad and burning everything beneath it. Our teachers applauded. The announcer said “Liftoff! We have liftoff!” and told us we were witnessing history.
We believed him, and watched the shuttle rise atop a column of fire.
Seventy-three seconds later, it ended.
Due to a massive amount of wind shear, along with the failure of the right rocket booster’s O-rings, a flare breached the external fuel tank of the
Challenger
and destroyed the integrity of the ship. From the ground, all systems looked normal. We could hear the joyous cheers of people standing behind the camera, the excitement in the announcer’s polished voice. We had no clue. Even Mission Control was unaware of the problem until the very end, as was evidenced by the last transmission made by NASA to the crew. It came ten seconds before the explosion and said, “Roger,
Challenger
, go at throttle up,” which means
Everything’s okay, you guys. Give it all you’ve got.
After a federal investigation into the event, and public disclosure of every detail, we learned that there was a bit more to this story. The disaster was not a complete surprise to everyone. It turned out that an additional transmission had been made, one second before the explosion, from the crew of the
Challenger
back to the ground, whenPilot Michael J. Smith, while either reading something on the gauges or feeling something in his heart, said, “Uh-oh.”
Often, in times of tragedy, there is a delay period, a moment of collective disbelief.
Not this time.
I immediately heard shouts from the halls.
Our teachers reacted first, clutching their
We drank fruit punch and ate cookies shaped like stars. We wore flag pins and sang the national anthem. We felt good, all of us did, and I had no way of knowing that the image of Mrs. Knight, my homeroom teacher, singing along in front of that flag would never leave me. She was a young woman with a bob haircut, although all teachers looked immensely old to me then, and she was a brunette. This was her first year teaching at the Perkins School, at any school, and it would be her last.
I remember that it was cold and dry that morning, oddly enough, as even January offers no promise of winter in Louisiana. I’ve spent Christmases in T-shirts, Thanksgivings in shorts and sneakers. On this day, however, we all wore pants and long-sleeved button-downs, and two rows across from me, sitting Indian-style on the carpet, Lindy Simpson wore a navy blue sweatshirt over her jumper.
I paid her no mind. I wanted to see the rocket.
When it came time for the countdown, our teachers turned up the volume on the television and asked us to pay attention. We stared like tourists at the shuttle in its launch position, filmed at long distance by a handheld camera. I remember the Kennedy Space Centerlooking completely deserted but for the craft: a white shuttle perched atop three cylindrical rocket boosters, the middle one some fifteen stories high and blood red. This was a good time in America. We were dreamers, teachers and students alike, all aboard that mission by patriotic proxy.
So, as the countdown began, we joined along. Our chorus swelled at T minus eight as smoke released from beneath the rocket in purposeful plumes. We then bellowed out the final “one” and watched the
Challenger
take off, heavy and miraculous, breaking away from the launch pad and burning everything beneath it. Our teachers applauded. The announcer said “Liftoff! We have liftoff!” and told us we were witnessing history.
We believed him, and watched the shuttle rise atop a column of fire.
Seventy-three seconds later, it ended.
Due to a massive amount of wind shear, along with the failure of the right rocket booster’s O-rings, a flare breached the external fuel tank of the
Challenger
and destroyed the integrity of the ship. From the ground, all systems looked normal. We could hear the joyous cheers of people standing behind the camera, the excitement in the announcer’s polished voice. We had no clue. Even Mission Control was unaware of the problem until the very end, as was evidenced by the last transmission made by NASA to the crew. It came ten seconds before the explosion and said, “Roger,
Challenger
, go at throttle up,” which means
Everything’s okay, you guys. Give it all you’ve got.
After a federal investigation into the event, and public disclosure of every detail, we learned that there was a bit more to this story. The disaster was not a complete surprise to everyone. It turned out that an additional transmission had been made, one second before the explosion, from the crew of the
Challenger
back to the ground, whenPilot Michael J. Smith, while either reading something on the gauges or feeling something in his heart, said, “Uh-oh.”
Often, in times of tragedy, there is a delay period, a moment of collective disbelief.
Not this time.
I immediately heard shouts from the halls.
Our teachers reacted first, clutching their