Ad Astra

Personal Finance was a morning class, the first one of the day; I struggled with staying awake. I was glad to be sitting with my back to the windows, as this was Alaska - the sun would not rise for another couple of hours, and the skies outside were as black as the void between stars. Balancing checkbooks and learning about savings bonds did not in any way, shape, or form compare to delving into Hemingway, or peeking inside the minds of Lincoln, Kennedy, or Eisenhower. It wasn't a class so much as it was an excuse: it was taught by Mr. Swatosch, our football coach. He needed to teach an actual class, and so there we all were. If the class was forgettable, he was not: Bartlett High's coach for 18 years, he was a gruff bear of a man who favored velour track suits. The track suits quickly became a running joke, but a good-natured one; he was a character in the best sense of the word. Twenty-five years ago this morning, Mr. Swatosch was wearing a maroon-colored velour track suit. I'm sure of this. I can't tell you what his lecture was about; it was interrupted when our principal stopped by and asked Mr. Swatosch to step outside the classroom for a moment. But I remember the color of that track suit, the color of a sodden brick wall, making his face all the more pale when he told us that the space shuttle had just exploded and that everyone on board was dead.

(I know there will be a bunch of tribute videos posted all over the Interwebs today; the Challenger explosion was one of those moments that will stick with our generation. I found this one a few weeks ago; it has very little and everything to do with the Challenger disaster. Enjoy.)