The scene: A fifth grade classroom in a Metrowest suburb. The sky was clear, the temperature cold.
I still remember where I was when it happened. I still remember the excitement in the air, the thrill of being connected, even if second and third hand, to something HUGE. I went to school that day, like any other day, an eager fifth-grader at McCarthy Elementary school. But this day was not going to be ordinary.

Just before lunch, all of the fifth graders gathered in the hall in front of a tv raised up on a large cart. Our teachers hovered behind us, willing us to understand how important this was and how fiercely proud they were, on this day, to stand shoulder to shoulder and call themselves "teacher".

NASA had issued a contest of sorts to send an ordinary citizen into space; they narrowed the list to three teachers from the US.Of the 11,000 applicants, the field came down to three, one from Texas, Barbara Morgan, one from Framingham, Charlie Sposato and one from Concord, NH, Crista McAuliffe.

Sposato, or Mr. Spo as he was affectionately called, was a local high school teacher and we were extra excited that some of our older siblings could claim to know such a famous "ordinary" citizen. As for McAuliffe, her mother, Mrs. Corrigan was often our substitute teacher and was really nice, so we had some good bragging rights of our own. And coolest of all, my teacher, Miss Curley, was good friends with both Mrs. Corrigan and her daughter. Miss Curley had traveled all over the world herself and she had a "lucky" brooch that had accompanied her on many adventures. She had given it to McAuliffe to wear in space because she knew that was one place she would never be able to bring it. Miss C had proudly mentioned this brooch on several occasions and we were eager to see it upon its return from the great beyond.

5-4-3-2-1. Lift off. Every fifth grader in the hall focused on that white rocketship, thrilled at the masses of white smoke billowing around the launch pad. Then, 73 seconds into the flight, something went terribly wrong. The announcers' voices were panicked and filled with tension. Miss Curley's knees had buckled and she wilted to the ground overcome with grief. To the eleven-year-old mind, death is not grasped quickly and the tremendous tragedy was not fully realized in the minutes surrounding the explosion. But later that week, attending a packed mass at a local church, a mass dedicated to all 7 lost astronauts, but particularly for the local girl, McAuliffe. We listened to stories about her life, saw pictures of her children, not that far from our own ages, and started to understand the impact.

Later we would pause to reflect that it could've been Mr. Spo and his daughter, my friend, would've lost her father. And we realized the blow to the space industry, and personally to our teacher and our friendly and kind substitute teacher.

I got a postcard with this picture above from CNN and I wrote the date and the words, "Never forget" on the back. I don't think I ever could.