Anniversary of a Dark Day for America's Space Program

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There's a point in "Inherit the Wind" when Spencer Tracy is addressing the jury on progress. His comments were in the context of Charles Darwin's Theory of Evolution; while you may or may not agree with that particular theory, there can be little disagreement with what Tracy's character said about progress of any kind:

"Progress has never been a bargain. You have to pay for it."

In that context, Tracy was speaking of the things that had to be given up to make way for the new, but it isn't always things that are sacrificed. Often it is lives.

America's space program certainly has been like that — and you would be hard pressed to find a better example of an endeavor that was undertaken almost exclusively in the name of progress.

It is also beyond dispute that the space program revolutionized our lives. Think of all that was made possible by the things that the astronauts discovered.

And the space program didn't have to pay much of a price, really, until this day in 1967.

It was on this day that the crew of Apollo 1 — Gus Grissom, Edward White and Roger Chaffee — perished when a fire broke out during a test of their spaceship at Kennedy Space Center in Florida.

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Americans had become spoiled with all the successes of the space program in the '60s. Sure, there had been some problems with the unmanned rockets in the program's nascent days, and that had been costly in a monetary sense, but there had been no casualties.

Americans held their breath as the astronauts did things that would make Americans shrug and sniff just a few years later, like blast off, leave the Earth's atmosphere, then return, proving it could be done, or orbiting the Earth, proving that could be done as well. Each mission was a building block to the goal President Kennedy set for the space program earlier in the decade — to send men to the moon and return them to the Earth.

They made it all look routine, just as they did a couple of decades later with the space shuttle. Just as when the Challenger blew up on almost the same day in 1986, Americans were shocked when the fire broke out and snuffed out the lives of the three astronauts.

Grissom had been one of the original Mercury astronauts with John Glenn (Grissom was the first Mercury astronaut to die; Glenn was the last only a few months ago). White was the first American to walk in space. Chaffee would have been on his first space mission.

All the astronauts were prepared to die if necessary, but I doubt they dwelled on the possibility. That's the way people in dangerous professions have to be if they are to do those jobs the way they need to be done.

On this day 50 years ago, the quest to fulfill Kennedy's pledge and the desire for progress took three lives. It wasn't a bargain, but America paid the price — and rose from the ashes, meeting Kennedy's challenge with the Apollo 11 moon landing in July 1969.

The Ashes of Waco

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It was 20 years ago today that the Branch Davidians' compound in Waco, Texas, burned to the ground when federal agents stormed the compound after a seven–week standoff.

In the aftermath of the bombing at the finish line of the Boston Marathon this week, it was natural for people to wonder if there was some connection between the two. When one considers the events of the last few hours, though, it is natural to wonder if there is a connection.

The focus of the investigation and manhunt was two brothers reported to be from Chechnya, but they are now said to have left Chechnya while children. At this writing, their allegiances/motivations are uncertain. About all that is certain is that one of the brothers is dead and the other is on the loose.

I suppose such questions will be answered at some point and in one way or another.

If the perpetrator(s) turns out to be domestic, there may be a pretty good chance that the explosions were planned to coincide (almost) with the anniversary of Waco. It was, after all, the inspiration for the bombing of the federal building in Oklahoma City two years later.

I remember exactly where I was on this day in 1993. I was in Columbia, Mo., with a group of my journalism students from the University of Oklahoma. We were attending a weekend seminar on the University of Missouri campus.

April 19, 1993 was a Monday, the last day of the conference. When things wrapped up around midday, we were planning to hit the road for Norman. I remember waking up in my motel room that morning and switching on the TV. As I got dressed for the day, I kept track of the start of the fatal siege.

It began early that day when the feds tried to use armored vehicles to puncture the walls of the compound — through which, the plan went, tear gas would be tossed in an attempt to flush the occupants out.

But somehow the compound went up in flames instead — some say the Davidians set the fire(s) themselves — and, when it was all said and done, more than 70 people, including their leader, the charismatic David Koresh (born Vernon Howell), were dead.

I've never been sure of the sequence of events. The students and I were busy until around 12:30 or so, but we learned, just before the seminar adjourned, that a fire — well, several fires — broke out shortly after noon. As the host of the seminar concluded the activities, he advised that "all hell has broken loose in Waco."

(I'm not alone in that uncertainty about the event sequence, by the way. Even among those who were at the scene and participated in the siege, there has been and continues to be disagreement about what happened when and who was responsible.)

The students and I didn't see footage of the burning compound until we got back to Norman, but we heard reports on the radio all the way.

That night, when I was back in my apartment, I stayed up late watching news accounts, marveling at what we had missed and at the irony that a bunch of journalism students and professors had missed what was probably the greatest news story of the year because they were attending a seminar about how to present the news more effectively.

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I had no idea that, two years later to the day, a bomb would go off in Oklahoma City, less than 30 miles from where I lived, and the timing would be connected to the anniversary of the assault on the Branch Davidians' compound in Texas.

(That was an even bigger news story, one in which I would find myself involved indirectly — as teacher and unofficial adviser to the students who staffed the OU campus newspaper, who produced all their own copy and photos and graphics, unlike nearly all newspapers, professional and collegiate, who depended upon the Associated Press.

(Frankly, I will never be able to say adequately — or often enough — how proud I was and am of the work those young people did on a story that undoubtedly was intensely personal for them. Many had grown up in Oklahoma City or nearby communities; one student even lost her father.)

But no one knew there was a link until later.

Somehow, that seems appropriate. Like other charismatic figures who led their followers to their destruction, Koresh was a mysterious individual. Judging from what I have read of Koresh — and the video clips I have seen of him preaching to his followers — virtually no one (perhaps not even Koresh himself) could have foreseen the fiery end of the Waco compound.

In many ways, Koresh and the Davidians remain shrouded in mystery.

Two decades later, Koresh still casts a mystifying spell.

"His legacy," writes Allan Turner in the Beaumont (Texas) Enterprise, "is one of righteousness, duplicity and showmanship."

A survivor of the inferno told Tim Madigan of the Fort Worth Star–Telegram that he still believes Koresh was who he claimed to be — in spite of the many questions that swirled around the standoff and final siege at the time.

There are many questions about those events that remain unanswered.

Nothing Can Go Wrong ... Go Wrong ... Go Wrong

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Big Tex in happier times.

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Back when I was in high school, I attended a weeklong journalism workshop on the SMU campus. Several non–journalism activities (more of a social nature) were scheduled that week as well, including the showing of the movie "Westworld" after the workshop concluded.

I was reminded of that movie when I first saw video footage of Big Tex in flames at the Texas State Fair — or, to be more precise, I was reminded of Yul Brynner, the evil robotic gunslinger, and "Westworld"'s tagline — "Westworld — where nothing can go wrong ... go wrong ... go wrong."

These days, I teach journalism in the Dallas community college system, which includes advising the students on the newspaper staff.

The paper is published weekly, and each edition is completed on Friday. (The paper is then distributed the following Tuesday.) The advisers have to be there until the last page is done, which is actually a lot of fun for me. It reminds me of the days when I used to work on newspaper copy desks.

It also reminds me of what working for a newspaper is like, the nightly challenge of playing beat the clock. There are things you expect — like deadline pressure — and things you don't expect — namely, the news.

Well, of course you expect news! It's your business, after all. But it is often a reactive sort of business. Sometimes you do know what to expect, albeit in a general sort of way, like when a trial is scheduled at the courthouse or a big game is about to be played at the high school. You don't know what the outcome will be, but you know the trial — or the game or whatever — is coming up.

Much of the time, though, you cannot anticipate what the news will be. You simply react to whatever happens.

Which brings me to yesterday.

I was driving to the campus Friday when I heard on the radio that Big Tex, the iconic figure from the Texas State Fair, had burned.

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I didn't grow up here, but I know many people who did, and I knew Big Tex was special to them. He's been greeting visitors to the Texas State Fair with his robust "Howdy, folks!" since 1952.

Any journalist in this area — and, for that matter, in neighboring areas — ought to know that. And I was pleased to find out, when I walked into the newsroom, that the student newspaper staff was on top of it. A photographer was on the scene (and came back with some great photos), and one of the reporters was trying to reach a professor on the faculty who is something of a Texas State Fair historian (and has written a book or two on the subject — or so I am told).

The professor couldn't be located, but the reporter uncovered some interesting facts that I didn't know.

I didn't know, for example, that Big Tex started as Santa Claus in a town southeast of here called Kerens.

And then a mayor of Dallas, R.L. Thornton — whose name adorns a stretch of road here that is always jammed. It is always mentioned whenever the TV or radio stations report about traffic problems — purchased Big Tex, and he's been greeting visitors to the fair ever since.

The folks at the fair swear he will be back next year, presumably with a more current wardrobe and some new boots, but it didn't look too promising when he left Fair Park in what looked an awful lot like a body bag.

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As the afternoon wore on, I felt more and more like Murray, the news writer on the Mary Tyler Moore Show who kept coming up with sick jokes about a colleague at the TV station, known only as Chuckles the Clown, who had been killed at a circus parade when he dressed as a character named Peter Peanut and a rogue elephant shelled him to death.

(When Lou Grant observed that it was a good thing more people weren't hurt, Murray agreed and said, "You know how hard it is to stop after just one peanut.")

Since I first saw that episode back in the '70s, I've discovered that there was a lot of truth in it. I spent many years working in newsrooms, and they are breeding grounds for gallows humor. Virtually nothing is sacred.

And I've lived in Texas long enough to know that Big Tex is sacred — or, at least, semi—sacred — to many.

But I really had no idea just how sacred he was until yesterday.

In the reporter's article, there was a quote from a girl who said she had been to the fair just a week ago and shot some video footage of Big Tex for a project on which she was working in school. "And now he's gone," she said to the reporter.

As I read it, I could imagine her eyes welling up with tears.

Then, as I was driving home from the campus around 8 p.m., I heard someone on one of the radio stations doing a tribute program to Big Tex.

"We've lost a friend today," the host said somberly as the song "My Heart Will Go On" (from "Titanic") played in the background.

Maybe it was all done tongue in cheek, but it sounded deadly serious to me.