Rocket Man

Was going through some old stuff in the garage and found a model rocket. Not sure how it survived all these years, or how it even got to NC from FL. But there was something special about this one; it was the last one I ever made, a Saturn V, and I remembered it well. I smiled to myself as I put in a place of honor in my garage.

They were a blast, I was really into them…nothing like watching something you made streak skyward and seeing the parachute deploy. Put in a new engine, repack the chute, and ready for another flight.

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John Schilling was our 12th-grade math teacher, a young guy, not much older than us. He had the long hair, mustache and sideburns of the late 70s and was generally well-liked. He had a passion for math, its elegance, objectivity, and he explained it in a way that we got it, too.

In lieu of a final, he announced we would have a Senior project; “something to do with math.” When pressed, he simply said our project was to showcase math in a creative way. It was worth one third of our grade.

The next week, I heard kids discussing their projects, very ambitious. One kid was gonna build a model of Stonehenge with tiny trees, people, and the kind of stuff used in a model train layout. Another kid was gonna recreate Eratosthenes’ experiments and equations of around 240 BC that gave the first rough idea of the earth’s size. Most were including tri-fold “science fair” displays.

As the weeks before project day shortened, my mom became increasingly concerned. She carried in some groceries one Saturday and saw me sprawled on the couch watching Championship Wrestling from Florida and eating Twinkies. “Honey, when are you going to start that math project? Do you even know what you’re gonna do?” She put stuff away while looking at me with concern. I paused to watch Rick Flair come off the top rope onto his opponent. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got two or three I’m thinking about.” She looked skeptical; in reality, I had nothing.

A week to go and I was getting a little panicky. Even my best friend had his project almost done; something to do with linear regression.

Sunday night came; project day tomorrow. Oh man. I looked at my Saturn V rocket, the one from the Apollo missions; I had just finished it and it was beautiful, about 30″ tall. Ah, I’ll just wing it. Zero hour, 9:00 am.

Kids took turns explaining their projects; it was obvious they had put a lot of effort into them. Mr. Schilling beamed as he wrote notes in his grade book.

My turn came. “All right, Darryl,” he said curtly. “What’s your project?” I stood and held up my model rocket. Mr. Schilling looked at it, then me. “What does that have to do with math?”

“Well,” I said. “Without math, we would have never gotten to the moon, would we?” I wasn’t trying to be smart, I was desperately hoping that he might see my logic and give me a C.

He looked incredulous. He put down his pen and gave me and my rocket a long appraising look. “Does that thing fly?”

I found the electronic ignition of the rocket engine didn’t work very well, so I had substituted my own method: Cut two or three firecrackers in half, tap the gunpowder into the ignition hole, insert a fuse and put some tape on it. It was better than the safety-oriented electronic method, but it was still touch-and-go. Much of the time, the fuse would light, then splutter, then go out with a wind gust. And today I had no spare fuses.

“Yes,” I answered. I guess I looked very uncertain.

Another long stare and he appeared to come to a decision. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s go outside. If it flies, you get an A. If not, you get an F. OK?”

I had a sudden knot in my stomach and an urge to use the restroom. An F in something worth 33% of my grade would probably mean summer school…but I had no other choice. “OK,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

The entire class pushed back their chairs and trooped out to the school baseball field. I set up the launch pad, put the rocket on it and adjusted the fuse. Mr. Schilling addressed the class.

“OK everybody. Let’s see if Darryl’s rocket flies.” He had a distinctively sarcastic tone.

I borrowed some kid’s bic lighter, but it kept going out. Click, click. Finally, a tiny flame and the fuse lit. It sputtered and reached the bottom of the engine. A few tense seconds went by with nothing. Mr. Schilling inhaled to speak, but he was interrupted by this loud WOOOOSHING sound and a bright light at the bottom of the rocket. It leaped off the launch pad and in my mind it was as glorious as the slow-motion movies of Apollo 11. The class cheered as it reached its zenith, maybe 2000 feet; then the popping sound as the parachute deployed and it drifted slowly with the wind, chased by a couple of students.

Mr. Schilling looked like he had swallowed a mouthful of vinegar. Back inside, he savagely wrote in his grade book and left, probably for a few shots in the faculty lounge. But he was a man of his word and my folks were complementary when final report cards came out. “An A in math?” my mom said. Her eyes shone; I couldn’t tell her.

In a few months, I went off to Florida to become an engineer and it was the last rocket I ever made. Kinda became kid stuff after that.

In my garage, I looked at the Saturn V in its new place of honor, last flown over 40 years ago. Half a lifetime gone by, but a vivid memory of one afternoon when it was all on the line and how my last creation was my best. My final season before college at the beach vs summer school.

“You and me, lass,” I said and tipped my beer at it. “You and me.”