The Day an Apple Took Down the Challenger

The 39th anniversary of the Challenger Explosion is this Tuesday, a day burned in my memory, though not as accurately as I’d like to think. Some people remember it on rolling TVs in elementary classrooms. But I’ll always remember it as the day my dad almost went down in history.

My father taught middle-school science in Port Angeles, Washington. He'd come from a small town, lived in a less-small town, and never stopped dreaming about science taking him away to somewhere bigger and better. In 2013 when the Mars One Mission claimed to be able to send travelers to the Red Planet by 2023, but they would have to leave family and friends forever, Dad said, "I love you guys, but I'd probably be up for that." He did love us, but we believed him. It wasn't the first time.

The author

In 1986 Dad signed up for a little mission called the "Teacher in Space" program, announced by President Reagan a couple of years earlier as a means to honor teachers, inspire students, and otherwise send the first private citizen into outer space. The guy was all in. And no sooner had he signed in ink when word spread all over town that NASA was considering the local 6th grade science teacher and cross-country coach for its unprecedented debut.

The Peninsula Daily News

Now, I remember only a few things about that time in my life. I had a mushroom haircut, Velcroed Nikes, and a Rainbow Brite doll that went with me most places. I remember newspaper articles that Dad hung on the wall of his office, little ribbons and awards, a NASA poster, medals.

He traveled a lot. Mom called him a "finalist," one of two in the whole state. I didn't like the idea of him traveling to space; it meant he was gone for dinner every night. I hugged my doll and smelled her forehead, the very best part.

I've created a whole world around what happened on January 28th. I remember being at my grandmother's house in Montana, because that's where we'd go if Dad was gone. And I remember watching the explosion on TV and wondering if Dad was evaporating into tiny bits in outer space. Except we didn't really have a TV. And we weren't in Montana. And I was told later that Dad was in the kitchen making a sandwich. But my 3-year-old memory watched him detonate on national television, sitting on my grandmother's lime-green carpet. I remember being all alone and grieving immediately.

National Education Association

But none of this actually happened.

I asked my sibling later and they shrugged, "Dad's fine. He didn't blow up...today." They said things like that. I asked them why then, why did the spaceship explode? They looked me dead in the eye: "One of the astronauts threw an apple core in the engine room. Got lodged somewhere and the whole thing blew up. It's why you're supposed to throw away your trash." They knew everything.

Now, I don't know why I never discussed any of this with my parents, even my dad. Could've cleared a few things up, but we all sort of moved on with our lives. Back to teaching middle school, coaching cross-country, back to small-town pursuits, leaving unprecedented missions to space in the rearview mirror. Years passed and I aged out of my own middle-school science classes and into high school, where I found myself competitive with my classmates, pursuing honors everything, and listening for whispers of SAT scores in the bathroom stalls. I'd almost finished, graduated and headed on my way to Gonzaga, when the story of the Challenger popped back up in my last chemistry class. Mr. Weeks detailed the fateful day and then began tossing questions to the class in the form of a tiny red foam ball. "What year?" Toss. "Who was the President?" Toss. "What went wrong?" My hand shot into the air. He tossed me the ball.

"One of the crew ate an apple. They threw the core in the engine room and it was lodged in something. A - a crankshaft. Maybe a spark plug. Blew the whole thing up." I threw the ball. It sailed past Mr. Weeks' motionless body, hitting the whiteboard, landing next to his shoe.

My father wanted to fly to space. He still does. He put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into going on a failed mission that would've killed him. We're grateful he lost. Sometimes I wonder if he is, too. Now retired, still mowing his lawn and chopping firewood in the driveway once a week, no one really remembers that he almost made it on board the Challenger. Now he's just the old guy from down the block, watering his plants and collecting the mail. If you asked around town what people remembered of January 28, 1986, I don't think many would mention his name. The poster and yellowing newspaper articles now hang on my daughter's wall. She's 13 years-old and also wants to fly to space, after going to film school, starting her own YouTube channel, and appearing on Broadway. I believe she'll do it all. But please, Charlotte, leave the apples at home.

Ellie is an author, editor, and owner of Red Pencil Transcripts, and works with filmmakers, podcasts, and journalists all over the world. She lives with her family just outside of New York City, and is represented by Vicki Marsdon at High Spot Literary.