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In the aftermath of distributing my father's entire
home brew production amongst the preschoolers in
our neighborhood, mothers prohibited their children
from all contact with me, leaving me without playmates.
Other children might have become depressed, sullen,
or angry. Some might have even gone so far as to
attempt to learn how to use a pocket lighter or
find matches so he might burn down houses. Instead,
I piled tools in my wagon and headed into the woods.
There I began construction of a diabolical space
craft that could fly silently and low, perhaps even
unseen, above the reach of adults. There I could
dump biting ants on the unsuspecting adults. Not
just ant hill ants, but trained stinging space ants!
The ants and I might have succeeded, too, if my
father hadn’t come trudging into the woods
in search of his tools. He caught me pounding a
tenth rusty nail into the trunk of an elm tree.
I had just gotten the hang of how to hit the nail
with the side of the pipe wrench when he swiped
it out of my hand and started yelling and pointing.
“ For Christ sakes! Use the proper tool for
the job! Haven’t I taught you anything?”
He reached into the tool filled wagon and handed
me a claw hammer. He made me pull the rusty nails
out of the tree, demonstrating first. Then he made
me drag my wagon home.
I would have gone back the next day to finish my
project. Once all the nails were reset into the
tree trunk, I would have chopped the tree down and
my rocket ship would have been ready to fly. Then
I could train my space ants to bite. But dad had
locked up all the tools, even the pipe wrench. It
would be seven more years until I returned to my
dream of launching biting pests into space.
By 1961; Sputnik, Yuri Gagarin, and John Glenn
had already made space history. The previous year
had I entered my first Science Fair and received
third place and a green ribbon in biology for grafting
apple and peach branches onto a maple tree. I might
have won the science fair if it had actually worked.
I think the judges liked my photos and display.
During the award ceremony my father discovered that
the winner of the science fair receives a college
scholarship. At that moment he decided to fully
fund my next project, so I might have a free college
education. As an aside, the scholarship was for
the local junior college, with a cash value of $250
over two years!
So I set to work to launch a mouse, wearing a heartbeat
monitor, into the sky. The sky was the best I could
do with my rockets. You might call it low, low space.
My rockets were two feet tall, powered by solid
rocket fuel, ignited by Dad's car battery and nicrome
wire. The electricity from the car battery was enough
to turn the nicrome wire red hot, igniting the solid
fuel. On ignition, the thrust would propel the rocket
into the sky at some ungodly rapid rate. It was
over before it started.
My rocket was equipped with a second stage and a
parachute.
Dad bankrolled my project with fifty cents each
for two pet store mice, who doubtless would have
been python food had I not given them a new career.
The mice, aka Traveler "A" and Traveler
"B," had very little to learn. They just
had to not bite me while I inserted each into a
snug tube fit with a tiny microphone. The microphone
was connected to a
miniature transmitter that would send a signal to
a land based receiver, from which I would record
the mouse's heart beat into my Radio Shack reel
to reel tape recorder. I had to show that during
space flight the mouse's heart rate would increase.
My bet was the poor mouse would get very excited
about space travel. Imagine my surprise when I tested
the microphone and found the mouse's heart didn’t
go “lub dub, lub dub”, but rather a
constant whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. It was whirrrrrrrrrrrr
if the mouse was asleep and whirrrrrrrrr if I had
the mouse was inside a tin can, dragged behind the
car at thirty miles an hour. At that point it dawned
on me that the mouse had two heart rates, the other
one being “flatline”.
After days of tests and preparation, it was time
to launch Traveler “A” into history,
or at least into a clear Sunday morning sky. Tragically,
and a good reason why future science fairs established
rules concerning the treatment of creatures, the
launch was problematic. While I had balanced my
rocket payload, Traveler “A” must have
freaked out when the nose cone was inserted and
wriggled out of position. The unbalanced mouse capsule
caused an unfortunate arc in the trajectory. The
rocket was already coming back down toward the empty
parking lot, when the second stage engine ignited.
Less than ten feet above the ground the payload
cone was ejected. It glanced off the pavement and
discharged
my moustronaut. With minor repair the rocket would
fly again, but not Traveler “A”.
Everyone was sad. Poor mouse.
I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to train
Traveler “B” for a mission. But as he
had a habit of biting me each time I fed him, I
decided to give it a try. I started wearing thick
leather gloves and eventually trained him to crawl
into the harness tube. Unlike the failed flight
of Traveler “A”, the next was a complete
success. Afterward, Traveler “B” was
retired from sub-space flights and returned to his
motif of biting the hand that feeds him. But that
was not the termination of his involvement with
science.
During the Science Fair, Traveler “B”
sat next to the rocket in his space theme decorated,
terrarium. I thought the judges liked my project,
despite two judges being attacked when they reached
in to examine my mouse. To this day I am confused
that the kid whose father welded two oil drums together
and sprayed it with paint could have won the scholarship
for “Building a Workable Iron Lung”.
Maybe the mouse
bites worked against my project. The kid who built
the iron lung should have grown up to be chief of
research at the Mayo Clinic, but instead he’s
an interior decorator employed by a carpet shop.
I didn’t waste time waiting for a phone call
from NASA. When the fair was over my biology teacher
asked if my mouse might be donated to science. I
thought, hey, a nice pet for the biology department!
A nice home for a biting mouse. Traveler “B”
gave his life to science.
The following fall there was a new chemistry teacher
at school. She had never seen my project, only heard
about it from the biology teacher. She lectured
me on how dangerous rockets were and how I should
become involved in something less hazardous. I didn’t
listen to her. I’d already made my mind up
to move on. The world was interested in manned space
travel, and no longer interested in skies full of
biting pests.
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