Hovering nearby, I watched Daddy set my rocket on the plywood launchpad in the deserted schoolyard. Once ready, we ran to a safe distance.
“Three, two. . .”
The package said to use and ‘A’ engine, but Daddy said a ‘D’ would be better. He always said that.
“One. Blast off!”
He pressed the button and the rocket roared up trailing smoke. It climbed out of sight. Necks stretched upward, our eyes strained not to blink watching the bright sky. Then Daddy spotted the speck of the open parachute. We cheered, then anxiously watched where it fell. Not in the street this time; it landed on the school roof and I dashed off to find the janitor, again.
The above photo is from the NASA website. It’s the launch of Apollo 4 (not my toy rocket – in case there was any confusion.)
This is a little story I wrote many years ago, but I still like it. It makes me want to spend some time this summer building rockets with my girls and going to Grandpa’s house to launch them.