
Mother did a noble job as a single parent, raising her 5 children of which I was the youngest. We actively attended church every Sunday and "Mutual" during the week. My youth group focused on Boy Scouting, which helped displace the lack of a father in my young life and gave me exposure to "guy things" and an outlet for my juvenile, repressed energy. One perk of belonging to Boy Scouts in those days was a subscription to Boy's Life; a monthly publication designed to entertain an adolescent imagination and motivate creative activities. I remember one article in particular whose theme was an introduction to model rocketry. It listed the main ingredients of the propellant, which was comprised of a good amount of sulfur. I had had some exposure to the flammability of sulfur and was acquainted with the similarity of its odor to that of matches. Deduction? Matches must be made of sulfur.
Having had my creativity recently stimulated by the magazine, I took a pen apart, the barrel of which resembled the shape of a rocket. I then began breaking the heads off the matches and carefully packing them into my little rocket. Fortunately, despite my age and naiveté, I had the smarts to decide that my test flight ought to be done out-of-doors so it would be free to "sore to the clouds."
The rocket's first test flight fell a little short of my expectations. It did manage to get off the ground, however, and I likewise managed to dodge the errant, swerving course of its 10 foot flight around the back yard. The project clearly needed improvements in design and theory, which necessitated the enlistment of several neighborhood friends and their ideas.
One of the boy's older brothers was into pellet guns with CO2 cartridges and was able to secure a spent cartridge from the garbage. It was the near perfect shape we were looking for. Another boy located a short piece of water pipe in his father’s shop, which would serve as a barrel to give our rocket directional stability. This was starting to look like a well founded, researched, and scientific endeavor. Together, the fuel team prepared the match heads and haphazardly used a piece of wire to pack them in as tightly as possible. I shudder today as I think of the potentially catastrophic results had one tamp of that wire generated enough friction to prematurely ignite the sulfur.
With the rocket fueled and ready to fly, the next problem was to secure the pipe in an upward direction so our rocket would go where rockets were supposed to go while giving us access to ignite the fuel. We migrated to the vacant lot behind the house and tried but couldn't agree on a bracing solution. Somebody suggested it but nobody was daring enough to risk holding the launch barrel by hand (another surprisingly mature display of a bit of cautious reasoning) so we laid the pipe across an ant hill, giving it a slightly elevated attitude. We theorized and debated briefly the trajectory of our newly re-titled missile. We concurred that it was aimed at the back of the house but theorized that it was all of 50 yards away and none of us believed that it could possibly get that far. We concluded that if it did, the house would make a nice backstop, serving the purpose of keeping us out of trouble with the neighbors.
Being the experienced "Rocketeer" of the group, I was assigned to light the fuel. I cleared the debris from the back of what was now being termed, the "launch projector" and made a small trail of match heads leading to the motor. This acted as a fuse; the most distant one igniting the next one and so on until the closest one lit the motor. Today, I conceitedly marvel at the ingenuity of a bunch of 8 year olds to come up with a plan that would give me time to evacuate the area. Somebody offered a short countdown, which lent even more authority to our scientific experiment after which I lit the pre-igniter and we all scattered for safety. There was a bright flash and we heard the sound of a prominent and powerful "swoosh." We saw a smoke trail emerging and lingering for about 5 feet from the end of the projector and almost instantaneously heard a loud "whack" come from the back of the house followed by a rapid succession of a whispered, "swuh, swuh, swuh, swuh, swuh" that faded away to nothing. We stared at each other, astonished! We couldn't believe what had just happened.
With loud war whoops and squeals of delight, we ran to the house to see if the missile had survived and to celebrate our success. The first evidence we encountered was a large dent in the siding; a one inch crater by about half an inch deep. We fanned out from there in a scientifically organized search for the remains. We finally found it and, although it was intact, it had ricocheted about half the distance back to the launching pad!
The excitement was apparent in our voices as we exchanged theories and postulated about the magnitude and power of our little projectile, each description out-doing the one previous. We were already formulating plans. "Lets do it again," someone urged!
We began to walk to the house, trading ideas for improvements on the next launching when somebody alerted us that he could smell smoke in the air. We turned around and, to our horror, discovered that the back lot was quickly becoming engulfed in flames. With wide eyes and in a bit of a panic, we ran toward the lot and frantically began stomping it down before it got out of hand. Several alert neighbors came to our aid by dragging garden hoses to the scene and concentrated their efforts in the areas that had, by now, grown in magnitude to a point that foot-stomping was no longer an option. We managed to get it extinguished shortly before the fire department arrived. They surveyed the damages and finally pronounced the scene under control and we all went our separate ways.
As they left, my fellow scientists offered condolences and hopes that I not get into too much trouble for what had just transpired. Later that evening in lieu of nutritious food for my dinner, harsh words were served up. For dessert, threats against my freedoms and well-being were administered. After promises were made, I was relegated to an early retirement to bed and a valuable lesson was taught and learned… and apparently never forgotten!
Having had my creativity recently stimulated by the magazine, I took a pen apart, the barrel of which resembled the shape of a rocket. I then began breaking the heads off the matches and carefully packing them into my little rocket. Fortunately, despite my age and naiveté, I had the smarts to decide that my test flight ought to be done out-of-doors so it would be free to "sore to the clouds."
The rocket's first test flight fell a little short of my expectations. It did manage to get off the ground, however, and I likewise managed to dodge the errant, swerving course of its 10 foot flight around the back yard. The project clearly needed improvements in design and theory, which necessitated the enlistment of several neighborhood friends and their ideas.
One of the boy's older brothers was into pellet guns with CO2 cartridges and was able to secure a spent cartridge from the garbage. It was the near perfect shape we were looking for. Another boy located a short piece of water pipe in his father’s shop, which would serve as a barrel to give our rocket directional stability. This was starting to look like a well founded, researched, and scientific endeavor. Together, the fuel team prepared the match heads and haphazardly used a piece of wire to pack them in as tightly as possible. I shudder today as I think of the potentially catastrophic results had one tamp of that wire generated enough friction to prematurely ignite the sulfur.
With the rocket fueled and ready to fly, the next problem was to secure the pipe in an upward direction so our rocket would go where rockets were supposed to go while giving us access to ignite the fuel. We migrated to the vacant lot behind the house and tried but couldn't agree on a bracing solution. Somebody suggested it but nobody was daring enough to risk holding the launch barrel by hand (another surprisingly mature display of a bit of cautious reasoning) so we laid the pipe across an ant hill, giving it a slightly elevated attitude. We theorized and debated briefly the trajectory of our newly re-titled missile. We concurred that it was aimed at the back of the house but theorized that it was all of 50 yards away and none of us believed that it could possibly get that far. We concluded that if it did, the house would make a nice backstop, serving the purpose of keeping us out of trouble with the neighbors.
Being the experienced "Rocketeer" of the group, I was assigned to light the fuel. I cleared the debris from the back of what was now being termed, the "launch projector" and made a small trail of match heads leading to the motor. This acted as a fuse; the most distant one igniting the next one and so on until the closest one lit the motor. Today, I conceitedly marvel at the ingenuity of a bunch of 8 year olds to come up with a plan that would give me time to evacuate the area. Somebody offered a short countdown, which lent even more authority to our scientific experiment after which I lit the pre-igniter and we all scattered for safety. There was a bright flash and we heard the sound of a prominent and powerful "swoosh." We saw a smoke trail emerging and lingering for about 5 feet from the end of the projector and almost instantaneously heard a loud "whack" come from the back of the house followed by a rapid succession of a whispered, "swuh, swuh, swuh, swuh, swuh" that faded away to nothing. We stared at each other, astonished! We couldn't believe what had just happened.
With loud war whoops and squeals of delight, we ran to the house to see if the missile had survived and to celebrate our success. The first evidence we encountered was a large dent in the siding; a one inch crater by about half an inch deep. We fanned out from there in a scientifically organized search for the remains. We finally found it and, although it was intact, it had ricocheted about half the distance back to the launching pad!
The excitement was apparent in our voices as we exchanged theories and postulated about the magnitude and power of our little projectile, each description out-doing the one previous. We were already formulating plans. "Lets do it again," someone urged!
We began to walk to the house, trading ideas for improvements on the next launching when somebody alerted us that he could smell smoke in the air. We turned around and, to our horror, discovered that the back lot was quickly becoming engulfed in flames. With wide eyes and in a bit of a panic, we ran toward the lot and frantically began stomping it down before it got out of hand. Several alert neighbors came to our aid by dragging garden hoses to the scene and concentrated their efforts in the areas that had, by now, grown in magnitude to a point that foot-stomping was no longer an option. We managed to get it extinguished shortly before the fire department arrived. They surveyed the damages and finally pronounced the scene under control and we all went our separate ways.
As they left, my fellow scientists offered condolences and hopes that I not get into too much trouble for what had just transpired. Later that evening in lieu of nutritious food for my dinner, harsh words were served up. For dessert, threats against my freedoms and well-being were administered. After promises were made, I was relegated to an early retirement to bed and a valuable lesson was taught and learned… and apparently never forgotten!
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