The Way Things Were
A memory. A shining moment of joy from days long gone. Dimmed by time, yet illuminated in the wake of a re-visitation to the weed filled valley, site of a dozen Saturdays with Dad. The memory fills my mind with the clarity and distance of a moment seen through a telescope. Telescopes, Dad says, are a window to the universe... and rockets are the door. The yellow-gray weeds sway in the breeze like a giant wheat field. Tiny kernels burst from the tips, peppering the ground as we rush past, seeking a bald spot from which to launch. There it is, slightly raised, a brown, dry mound of earth, the perfect springboard to the stars. We open our bags, and pull out four black legs. Dad proceeds to set up the launchpad while I gently remove our most recent creation. Long and red, with bright yellow fins, I hold it in both hands, careful not to drop it. The edges are a little rough... Dad let me glue the fins on myself, consequently leaving large gobs of clear paste jutting out around the sides. But once it's airborne, no one will notice. A smile creeps up my face. This is a special launch. I caught a centipede on our basement steps just hours ago, and is now stowed in the midsection of my rocket, a couple of cotton balls stuffed around it to keep it safe. The casing there is clear, so the centipede will be able to see out. Lucky little astronaut.
Today - I stand in the middle of a bright cul-de-sac. White houses surround me, gleaming and bright in the midday sun. What once was a flowing sea of brown and gold, is now a desert of asphalt, concrete and plastic. Where my launchpad once was sits a tall white basketball standard. Trees spring up all over the place, each shining a different shade of green in the bright sun, yet even these seem artificial. They are too perfect, each painstakingly placed to provide the proper atmosphere. Nearby is a sign, "Blind Child Area" in big bold black letters against florescent yellow. I try to see the field from my childhood rocket launches, but everywhere I turn there is another grouted wall, a manicured lawn, a leaky hose spigot. I am blinded by the years, and the change.
The launchpad is finished. Dad calls me over, and I run, nearly tripping over my over long jeans and dropping my precious treasure. The launchpad stands ready, a long silver pole jutting up out of the earth, a reverse lightning rod... not to bring down power from above, but to ascend. The pole slides easily through the two holes along the side of the rocket. We run out a safe distance and Dad hands me the controls. The countdown begins. "5."
I suppose the place has its charms. The sun plays on the buildings in a friendly way. This is no slum; it is perfect for raising kids, I think, as a few run out into their yard to push around their mulitcolored trucks. But as I walk around the sidewalk again, I can't help but think that I will never be able to launch another rocket from this spot again.
"2... 1... Blastoff!" The button is pressed, the rocket takes to the sky in a burst of flame and a rush of air. It's gotta be a mile up now! Dad says it's no more than a few hundred feet but I know better. I can't even see it anymore in the gray overcast sky. Where'd it go? I stand here, nervously twisting my body and head all around to try to catch a glimpse of the falling capsule. There it is! But wait... something is wrong. The parachute hasn't deployed! It's falling too fast. If it crashes... what of our hard work? What of that poor centipede? The nose tips and the rocket continues to dive straight down towards the embankment of the valley. Don't break, don't break, don't break.... THUD! The run to my fallen treasure feels like rushing to the deathbed of a loved one. There isn't much you can do to fix it, but you feel as if haste will somehow make it better. I reach the spot and wade through the sagebrush, praying. A glint of red through the dusty brown bushes. Here it is! It seems to have survived the fall, but not without casualties. Two red fins lay helpless on the ground. I reach down and lift the capsule, looking into the clear plastic to see if my centipede survived. It isn't moving. I pull the top off and remove the cotton balls. Somehow the centipede seems fused the to cotton, perhaps melted there. Poor little guy. But wait. He's stirring. I place him on the ground and he pulls free of his binding. A foot or two are left behind but he scurries away, happy as can be! And why shouldn't he be? What a trip! I pick up the pieces of my rocket. In a younger time, I'd have been angry that my rocket broke, but I'm a seasoned pro by now! All it needs is a little glue and it'll be ready for the next launch in no time. My smile widens as I look at Dad, who returns it. Hand in hand, we wade back through the brush, back through the sea of weeds... back through time...
As I drive away from the valley of a thousand homes, I wish for times gone by. Progress marches on, leaving my childhood Cape Canaveral unrecognizable. My memories will never be shared by the children in that cul-de-sac, but I can only imagine what adventures they will have in their own backyards. After all, there is probably a tiny centipede, descendant of my little astronaut, who is waiting for his adventure too.
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