Houston, We Have a Problem!
By Bill Redman
Growing up during the so called “space race,”
I have always had a fascination with rocket ships. I had seen all the old
movies and TV shows. Up until I was 11 years old, “Forbidden Planet” was by far
my favorite movie. Until I saw “2001: A Space Odyssey.” I didn’t really
understand it but DAMN! I had to get into space, and quick.
We were living in Houston, which at the time was ground zero
for space travel. I had been on a couple of field trips to NASA’s Johnson Space Center,
where during a visit to the gift center, I had purchased a Styrofoam rocket
that, get this, REALLY FLEW! You have to remember that jet engines were in
their infancy at that time, and most planes flew with propellers. This rocket
had a propeller on its nose that was connected to a rubber band so that when
you wound up the propeller and let it go, it took off. Not always were you
wanted it to, but it flew none the less. That thing could fly as high as the
pine trees in my yard. EUREKA!
I got to thinking that if this 12-inch toy could reach 200 feet (I was 11 at
the time so the height may be a little exaggerated) just think how high a full
scale model could go. If I could build one of these in my backyard, the stars
were the limit. How hard could it be? It wasn’t exactly rocket science.
First things first. Inventory of my tools: broken
hammer (check); dull saw (check); jammed pliers (check). It was the typical
toolbox of most boys growing up during those years. Next I had had to round up
the materials needed: lumber, nails and bicycle parts. I would go to every
construction site around and pick up bent nails, which I would spend hours
straightening with a hammer against the sidewalk ‘til I smashed my fingers to a
pulp. I picked up all the scrap wood and anything else I could salvage and
either balanced it precariously on my bike or went back and put it in my wagon.
(On a side note, I find it a shame that 11-year-olds no longer have a need for
a wagon. Today they spend all day at their PCs, watching DVDs while listening
to their MP3s. Back then, I was happy to get two hours in front of the RCA … in
my BVDs). When it came to bicycle parts, every self-respecting boy would have a
miscellaneous assortment (or as my mom called it, a pile of junk) of leftover
parts from bicycles, though most were well past their prime.
It wasn’t until years later that I realized
that most, if not all, of my inventions required these materials - wood, nails
and bicycle parts. And it took even more years to come to the conclusion that
these same inventions were responsible for most of the scars that I have today.
All I had to do was come up with a plan to
make this puppy fly. I can’t say I came up with the idea on how to make this
work all on my own. It was Divine Intervention. I had cut open my rocket ship
to see how it worked. Propeller on the top, attached to a rubber band in the
middle that was attached at the bottom. Viola! No rocket science involved.
Next it was on to finding the perfect rocket
body. I was in luck. A new subdivision had been completed in my neighborhood
and they had just taken down the billboards at the entrance. Low and behold,
there were two giant red plywood arrows that at one time had guided prospective
home buyers to the area. They were about 4 feet wide and 14 feet long. PERFECT!
When they were stood on end, I was halfway to the moon.
Now to select my flight crew. First, they
would have to be strong enough to help me get these arrows to my backyard.
Secondly, they had to be able to keep a secret and not to go running to their
moms if something went wrong (which seemed to happen on a regular basis around
me). Thirdly, and most importantly, access to their dad’s workshops.
That left slim pickings. My next door
neighbor, Harry, was the first up for consideration. His dad had the best shop,
but Harry would go crying to his mom if he stubbed his toe. My other neighbor,
David, could keep a secret but was new to the neighborhood and did not yet have
street creds. Dean, from down the street, had a minor mental defect but was
strong as an ox. Also there were the Johnson brothers from the next block over.
Allen and Jeffery. Not the sharpest crayons, but they were always there and
ready to get into any trouble available.
And then there was my little brother. He hung around my neck like an
albatross. He was three years younger than me and followed me everywhere. Our
mother was one of the few mothers that were working a job outside the home in
those days. She left our younger sister with a neighbor and for some God
unknown reason, trusted me and my brother to take care of ourselves while she
was at work.
I assembled the troops and let them in on the
plan. Right off the bat, Harry informed me that his dad had an “Honest to God”
real propeller that came from a biplane. Harry was in. Chief engineer. David
said that he had always wanted to be an astronaut. Ok, I had my copilot. Dean
just grunted. I knew who was toting the arrows. Then Allen and Jeffery said
that their new “uncle” worked at a junk yard. They were on parts acquisitions.
That left my brother. If I wanted to keep him from telling mom, I would have to
include him. I decided to make him Flight Control Officer. He cried until I
told him that he would get to do the countdown. Unfortunately, he started
practicing right away. I had always known that numbers weren’t his strong suit
but I hadn’t realized the implications of my decision until then. And to compound my mistake, my brother had
recently found an old megaphone that our older sister had used in junior high
school. For the next two days, throughout the whole neighborhood, all you could
hear was an 8-year-old screaming at the top of his lungs “TEN, NINE, ELEVEN,
FOUR, EIGHT, TWO, ONE, BLASTOFF!” or some other nonsensical sequence of numbers
that always ended in a blood curdling “BLASTOFF!
After regaining a semblance of hearing in my
right ear, I felt that I had everyone in place and we were all set. I went with Allen and Jeffery to their new
“uncle’s” place of employment. In those days, divorced moms always introduced
their new boyfriends to their kids as their long lost “uncle” who needed a
place to stay for the night. Allen once confided that he was the luckiest guy
around. He had at least twenty uncles. I have to admit I was a little jealous.
I only had one uncle and he lived in Minnesota.
That aside, we went to work collecting anything useful. Filling our wagons,
with various pieces of hardware that now seem to have ranged from to the ridiculous
to the sublime, we headed home.
"I could hear his mother say, as she looked towards me, 'No good will come of this'. Oddly enough, I have heard those very same words repeated throughout my life. Mainly from my wife to whoever is within earshot at the time I am trying to achieve greatness."
Time for the fuselage.
We lugged the wooden arrows from
atop the large earthen berms where the work crews had discarded them and laid
them on our wagons. Attaching Dean to ropes tied to the wagons, we started our
arduous journey towards my backyard. Besides Dean’s occasional grunting, the
trip was pretty much uneventful. As we turned into my driveway, Harry’s mom
happened to be outside. Harry quickly ran toward his mother claiming innocence.
Of course, he stubbed his toe on the way and burst into tears. I could hear his
mother say, as she looked towards me, “No good will come of this”. Oddly
enough, I have heard those very same words repeated throughout my life. Mainly
from my wife to whoever is within earshot at the time I am trying to achieve
greatness.
We then set upon attaching the
two arrows together using the wood at hand. Trying to cut plywood with a hand
saw that was missing half its teeth was a challenge. Most of our wood cuts
looked like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Not a straight line to be found. We
sawed and hammered away like there was no tomorrow. I had arbitrarily set the
launch date as 3 p.m. Friday. Three days
from now. I figured that would give enough time to build the rocket, reach the
atmosphere (wasn’t real sure what that was) and land back in the yard before my
mom got home from work. My copilot,
David, kept requesting that we add an “Escape Hatch”. I started having my doubts about him. We
finished for the day and covered everything up with an old tarp.
When my mother came home from work, she looked
out the back window and asked what was out there. My little brother was about
to tell her what it was when I asked him to practice his countdown. As he
started running around the house yelling out random numbers and screaming
“BLASTOFF”, my mother smiled with her usual bemused look and went back to
cooking dinner. Thank goodness we didn’t have to abort the mission … yet.
The second day of construction on the rocket
was pretty much the same. A lot of fingers getting smashed by hammers and
plenty of splinters to go around. Harry nervously brought over his dad’s prized
propeller. He said he wasn’t really sure about this. What if it got broke? I
allayed his fears with the promise that when the newspaper reporters took
pictures of us and our space ship after our flight, that he would be famous.
His dad would see the picture of his son and his propeller in the paper and
would be so proud. He was in.
It was time to stand up the rocket. When the
six of us tried to lift the rocket into an upright position, we ran into our
first snag. Who knew that plywood and 2x4’s would be that heavy? We were only
able to get it to a 45 degree angle. I had the guys rest it on top of an old
ladder. I’m not sure which creaked more, the ladder or the rocket. We could at
least install the propeller. I used some baling wire to attach it to a bicycle
wheel that was wired to a sprocket that was wired to the nose. It was more than
little askew, but it looked magnificent. We all stood back and admired our
workmanship. We were almost there. All we had left was getting the damn thing
upright and finishing our propulsion system. This was another good thing about
keeping old bicycles. We had enough inner tubes to make the world’s largest rubber
band. Getting the rocket pointing towards the stars was another matter that
would require some thought.
After discussing this dilemma with my flight
crew, we figured it would take about another ten kids to get it upright. Where
to get ten kids from our neighborhood that weren’t banned for life by their
moms from ever coming within 100 yards from my house since the “Great Cowboy
and Indian Bottle Rocket War of ‘68”? What would attract that many kids? Dead
vermin? Nope, haven’t seen any lately. Broken bones? Nope, my mother had
promised to skin me alive if I didn’t go six months without breaking something.
I got it! Comic books! We could have a comic
book sale. We could spread the word around this afternoon and by tomorrow
morning kids would be lined up down the block. Now for the hard part.
Convincing the guys to part with some of their most prized possessions. After
having to stop a near riot and a mass desertion of the troops, I used the
newspaper bit. We will be “World Famous”, I told them. We could walk into any
comic book store and they would give us any one we wanted. Hell, they’ll
probably even make a comic book about us and our space exploits. That seemed to
work.
We finished for the day and the guys jumped on
their bikes and went out to spread the word of the comic book sale. As I was
getting ready to drape the tarp over the rocket, David asked me again about the
escape hatch. I assured him I would do that right away and that he should hurry
up and get the news out. I was really starting to question my choice of
copilot. I quickly went to work on the escape hatch and covered the rocket up
just as my mom got home. She looked out the back window again but before she
could ask me anything, I hollered to my brother, “Countdown”! Off he went. My
mother had that quizzical look on her face that would remain there for years
because of me and my brother.
Day Three at Launch Control.
I was right. By 9 a.m. there were a
least twenty kids lined up to go through our comics. I had strategically set up
the table in the backyard next to the tarp covered rocket. We lead them to the
table and as they were looking through the comic books, I nonchalantly pulled
off the tarp.
Every one of their jaws dropped. They quickly
forgot the comic books and gathered around the rocket. They were in awe!
Questions were flying so fast I could hardly answer them all. Does it really
fly? How far up will it go? How fast will it fly? How big is the parachute?
Huh, come again? How big is the what? Parachute? Oops. Missed that one. I left
the rest of the questions to my flight crew while I dashed into the house in
search of a parachute. What to use? Bed sheets! That was it! And lots of them.
I stripped down my brother’s and my bed and my two sister’s beds for good
measure. I quickly knotted the corners together, tucked them under my arm and
went back outside.
The kids were still asking questions and
looking over the rocket when I returned. I interrupted the Q & A session by
announcing that we still had a few positions available on our flight crew and
was anybody interested. Man, they rushed me like a hobo on a hotdog. I told
them there would be a test to see if they were right for the job. A test of
strength. You never saw so many boys flexing their muscles. Most of their
biceps looked like what my dad called a “pea in a silk stocking”. I was going
for quantity not quality. I tied a rope around the nose of the rocket and threw
the other end over a tree branch. I had the hopefuls grab ahold of the rope and
pull. It took a little time and a lot of staining but by God we got it to
stand. Not steadily, but upright just the same. It was breathtaking.
We all stood around it in silence, taking it
all in. Then it started to fall over. Without saying word, we all ran towards
it as one and held it up. I had our chief engineer add some boards to stabilize
it. We went about adding a platform in the middle for the pilot (me) to stand
on. We then connected the fifty bicycle inner tubes to the sprocket on top and
to the huge I-hook we had attached to the bottom.
The plan was simple. Me and David would insert
short 2x4s’ into the inner tubes and wind it up. When I felt we had had reached
optimum revolutions to achieve takeoff, we would let the boards go and the
propeller would do the rest. I had tied the newly added parachute to a rope and
when needed, would throw it out the small observation window next to my head.
Who needed to know anything about rocket science? This would be a breeze.
It was almost 3p.m. Zero hour. I
climbed in first and then David entered. I saw him look nervously at the escape
hatch next to him. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that all I did was nail
an old gate latch to the inside of the rocket and paint “Escape Hatch” over it.
After all, he wouldn’t need it. We began to wind up the inner tubes. It was
easy at first, but then when the tubes started doubling and tripling up, we
were really having to strain. Allen had borrowed one of his “uncles” old
brownie cameras to document this momentous occasion. He said later that he
wished he had actually taken a picture. He was too awestruck at the sight that
he forgot he was holding a camera. He and several of the other members of the
flight crew said that under the strain of the tightened tubes, the rocket
actually bowed outward at least two feet in the middle.
This was it. I hollered down to
my brother, “COUNTDOWN”! From the megaphone rang out, “TEN, NINE, (at that
moment, time seemed to stand still) EIGHT, SEVEN, (the rocket started shaking
violently) SIX, FIVE, (my copilot was screaming like a little girl. “OH MY GOD!
The escape hatch won’t open”!) FOUR, THREE (my God, my brother was going to do
it!) SEVEN, (Damn) SIX, TWO, ONE”!
Then it happened. Maybe I should have looked
up the first rule of rocket science: Righty tighty, lefty loosy. It had appeared
that we had been winding the inner tubes counterclockwise, causing the big
I-bolt at the bottom on the rocket to back itself out. Now fifty inner tubes
stretched beyond imagination were hurdling up the middle of the rocket at twice
the speed of light.
"Maybe I should have looked up the first rule of rocket science: Righty tighty, lefty loosy."
My father had once mentioned a “Whirling
Dervish.” When I asked him what it was he said “Son, most men live their whole
lives and never see one. I pray you are one of those.” Well, here I was at the
tender age of eleven, face to face with a “Whirling Dervish.” I have looked
deep into its eyes and can tell you that it is pure evil.
Now add to that the 2x4s we used for winding
it up were mixed in with the tubes. There were now twice as many propellers
inside the rocket as outside of it. This gave a whole new meaning to being
“knocked kneed.” I was knocked kneed, knocked shin bone, knocked elbowed and
knocked everything else including senseless. My copilot was still frantically
trying to escape when the rocket started to fall forward. I tried feebly to
shove the parachute out the window. It was to no avail.
The rocket and its hapless crew hit the ground
with a thud. Twenty-five kids ran to their bikes and took off. Most of my
flight crew included. Harry was screaming about his dad’s propeller. It was
none the worse for wear. Wish I could say the same about me. I had lumps on top
of lumps and had black lash marks over the majority of my body. David crawled
out and was swearing under his breath something about an escape hatch on his
way home.
That evening, I was sitting on the couch
nursing my various injuries and trying to unknot my older sister’s bed sheets
before she killed me, when my mother came home from work. She gave me the usual
quizzical look and went into the kitchen. She looked out the window and saw the
rocket lying on its side. “What is that?” she asked.
“It’s a submarine, mom. It’s a submarine”. At
least you didn’t need to know about rocket science to build one of those.
Copyright 2012 Bill Redman. Reprinted with permission
