CzTeacherMan
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So... I'm a teacher. High School English. Seniors.
My students had an assignement to write a 900 word descriptive essay about anything they chose. Over 3 weeks, I walked them through the writing process. About a week in, as the first draft was coming due, they didn't believe that I could do it myself. I went home and wrote a 1500 word essay. Then I worked through the revision process with them, using my essay as an example. The result is below. Enjoy! (Link to the Google Doc version, easier to read: here)
Quad Cities Rocket Society
5… The countdown to launch begins. 4… Tensions mount. 3… Palms sweat anxiously. 2… No turning back now. 1… Oh no, what if it explodes?! … … With that, the LCO mashes the button marked “Launch.” All the countless hours invested, all the stacks of money spent, and all the hopes and fears zip down the wires into the ignitor. In that instant, the success or failure of the launching rocket depends entirely on the skills of the builder. Rocketry, as a hobby, demands meticulous effort over many weeks and months culminating in the adrenaline rush of watching a rocket takeoff. The QCRS family gathers monthly to hang in suspense together, hoping for that unique, momentary thrill of rocketry success.
As rocketeers arrive at the field just north of Princeton, IL, the vast, desolate farm slowly consumes their attention as they drive further from their busy lives. With the uncharted possibilities of the day still unfolding, the field waits for them like an unopened Christmas present. Its sloppy mud and the stubble of harvested crops threaten to swallow boots or add five pounds of muck to each foot. Stretching across the field, treacherous creeks and daunting trees wait for their chance to gobble a descending rocket. Similarly, lingering fog looms over the launch site, desperately trying to block the sky. Undeterred, the rocketeers drive on, scanning the road ahead for any sign of their destination.
Poking through dense fog, the QCRS rocket barn, in all its holey, rusted glory, marks the launch site like a lighthouse, calling to the arriving vehicles. A fragmented roof smiles in anticipation of the only visitors it sees all month. Its gaping cavities welcome the fliers while weeds and grass threaten to choke the rusted metal barn out of existence. Arriving here marks the end of the journey but the beginning of a day filled with the possible thrill of success. The barn’s many dents and open holes remind the hobbyists of the disasters they hope to avoid as they park along one side of the pot-hole road.
Beaming with excitement, impatient enthusiasts amble out of their dusty vehicles, relieved to see their once-a-month family. Club members, fresh from setting up the range, greet their grinning friends, the occasional newcomer, and the excited spectators. This sea of flannel and denim grows larger as the clock ticks towards launch time. Groups of rocketeers swarm from one spot to another, welcoming one another, the LCO, the RSO, and the vendor as they eagerly wait for the first rocket to tell them where the wind is blowing and how hard. Some nervously wait to prepare their flights, while others press ahead, confident in their master-builds and precise calculations. Still others ramble towards to vendor’s trailer to pick up their latest purchase and maybe add another motor or five since the sky is so clear.
Entering the yawning door of the Wildman Hobbies rocketry trailer, row upon row of rocket motors reach for the rocketeers and call to their wallets. Wall-to-wall tubes lean at odd angles, an overwhelming assortment of possibilities waiting to be selected. A Willy-Wonka-esque, wiry-haired figure meets them with a gleam in his eye; Tim knows exactly how to provoke a bigger, badder purchase to punch the rocket just a little more because mild men will not do, this is a place for wild men only. The cramped interior is stuffed floor-to-ceiling with drawers, shelves, closets, people, shouting, and laughter. Mild disparaging barbs spur friends to purchase expensive extras as the black-hole register churns out receipt after receipt after receipt. No one really minds their growing tab as everyone scampers out with a smile and a box or four, heading back to their cars to finally begin prepping for the launch just minutes away.
As waiver time approaches, people ready their rockets, flitting hurriedly around tables and trunks along the line of cars, trucks, and trailers spread down the dirt farm road. Methodical fingers nervously wire black powder charges and carefully twist screwdrivers while probes test batteries and altimeters beep out diagnostics. Shaky hands stuff fireproof recovery wadding into rocket body tubes; sometimes missing the tube, little puffs of grey dog-barf float to the ground. Others precisely pack parachutes, rolling them in black Nomex blankets while quicklinks and swivels twinkle from table to table. Messy piles of tools, wires, and other flotsam grow steadily under rockets sitting on angled PVC stands. As rocket sections come together with a “thunk,” and sheer pins are tapped into place, the rocketeers warily eye the waiting launch pads.
The tiny forest of empty launch pads impatiently anticipate their approaching companions. Gleaming aluminum launch rails poke 6 or 8 feet into the air, contrasted sharply by their more aged companions who are tainted black with the soot of countless past launches. Pitted, rusty steel plates sit underneath the rods, blasted into a shadow of their former pure metal. Each pad’s spindly spider legs stretch across the ground, reaching out to stabilize the hefty rockets that will soon fire their engines. Electrical leads spread out like vines around the ground, anxiously reaching out to give life to the propellant while threatening to trip the careless flier carrying his rocket.
Marching carefully to the pads, rocketeers restlessly load their rockets, tensely fidgeting with launch angle and pad legs. After a few twists-and-tucks, altimeters start beeping, announcing their readiness to soar. Hopeful hands place ignitors carefully up the tailpipe and cap them in place. After connecting the leads, rocketeers step back with a nervous sigh, a million fears and images of past CATOs flashing through their heads. Anxious, twitching smiles flash between hobbyists, wishing each other, “Straight smoke and open ‘chutes!” Together, they meander nervously back to the flight line. Their rockets remain behind, taking aim at the sky. Some fat, some skinny, some tall, some short, this awkward stand of trees sways slightly in the breeze. Flashes of glossy fiberglass and cardboard glint sunlight back at the crowd. Colorful paint schemes show off patient skill while globs of epoxy cry out, reminding everyone of past mishaps. Impatient, the body tubes and nosecones twitch slightly as the countdown begins.
The LCO announces the rocket and its creator before beginning his 5-count. The moment he presses the button, all the hopes, dreams, skills, and hours of labor leap into the sky, screaming upwards, leaving a trail of black and grey smoke, tipped with a bright orange flame, a rainshower of glowing titanium sparks sprinkling the field below. As the rocket punches further and higher, the roaring motor echoes for the exhilarated crowd. This investment of love, labor, and treasure streaks through the blue, soaring out of sight. Apprehensive silence grips the crowd as they count the seconds; the momentary thrill fading quickly into nervousness as everyone waits for the parachute to pop. And they wait.
And they wait. Two seconds seems a lifetime, five seconds turns stomachs queasy, and ten seconds aches like a lifetime of anxiousness. Finally, a puff of white smoke announces the successful apogee charge and parachute deployment. Everyone sighs relieved, reassured; one observer sighs more deeply, pleased at his rocket’s success. As it gracefully descends under its colorful parachute, it dangles gently in the sky, hanging on twenty feet or more of yellow Kevlar, bouncing and twisting in the wind. Like a bird floating on a thermal breeze, the rocket slowly drifts lower and lower towards the muddy farmland where it will wait to be recovered. The flier, filled with pride, has to fight the urge to simply enjoy this spectacular moment as he sets himself to get a precise line on where the rocket will land hopefully not too far across the sludge.
The occasionally arduous job of rocket-hunting begins once the rocket settles down into the mud. Rocketeers set out in pairs with receivers in hand, listening intently for the beeps that point the way to their prize. Ten paces through muck, stopping, readjusting, then ten more, and repeat, two or more friends tromp methodically across the mud field, tracing a slight zig-zag path, nervous for what they might or might not find. Crossing creek beds, hills, and semi-swamps, they hunt further, searching for their runaway creation. Their apprehension breaks momentarily when they hear an altimeter beeping in the distance. Fighting the urge to risk running across the swampy field, they can make out the back-up altimeter announcing its success as well. Plotting carefully and concentrating on the horizon, they finally spot a fluttering touch of color. The red and blue parachute flits and twitches, fighting the wind, proclaiming a successful flight. Approaching the sprawling line of rocket booster, shock cord, payload, more shock cord, parachute, and finally nosecone, the compatriots stand still, barely breathing, counting the beeps, carefully tallying the altitude.
1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8...9… … … again, and again until it chirps out the details of its ascent. 9,999 feet! Success. Well, damn close. A single foot short! Oh the agony! Wait, that just means it has to launch again; a bigger motor guarantees 10,000! “Hey, Tim! Do you have a K300 on hand? …”
My students had an assignement to write a 900 word descriptive essay about anything they chose. Over 3 weeks, I walked them through the writing process. About a week in, as the first draft was coming due, they didn't believe that I could do it myself. I went home and wrote a 1500 word essay. Then I worked through the revision process with them, using my essay as an example. The result is below. Enjoy! (Link to the Google Doc version, easier to read: here)
Quad Cities Rocket Society
5… The countdown to launch begins. 4… Tensions mount. 3… Palms sweat anxiously. 2… No turning back now. 1… Oh no, what if it explodes?! … … With that, the LCO mashes the button marked “Launch.” All the countless hours invested, all the stacks of money spent, and all the hopes and fears zip down the wires into the ignitor. In that instant, the success or failure of the launching rocket depends entirely on the skills of the builder. Rocketry, as a hobby, demands meticulous effort over many weeks and months culminating in the adrenaline rush of watching a rocket takeoff. The QCRS family gathers monthly to hang in suspense together, hoping for that unique, momentary thrill of rocketry success.
As rocketeers arrive at the field just north of Princeton, IL, the vast, desolate farm slowly consumes their attention as they drive further from their busy lives. With the uncharted possibilities of the day still unfolding, the field waits for them like an unopened Christmas present. Its sloppy mud and the stubble of harvested crops threaten to swallow boots or add five pounds of muck to each foot. Stretching across the field, treacherous creeks and daunting trees wait for their chance to gobble a descending rocket. Similarly, lingering fog looms over the launch site, desperately trying to block the sky. Undeterred, the rocketeers drive on, scanning the road ahead for any sign of their destination.
Poking through dense fog, the QCRS rocket barn, in all its holey, rusted glory, marks the launch site like a lighthouse, calling to the arriving vehicles. A fragmented roof smiles in anticipation of the only visitors it sees all month. Its gaping cavities welcome the fliers while weeds and grass threaten to choke the rusted metal barn out of existence. Arriving here marks the end of the journey but the beginning of a day filled with the possible thrill of success. The barn’s many dents and open holes remind the hobbyists of the disasters they hope to avoid as they park along one side of the pot-hole road.
Beaming with excitement, impatient enthusiasts amble out of their dusty vehicles, relieved to see their once-a-month family. Club members, fresh from setting up the range, greet their grinning friends, the occasional newcomer, and the excited spectators. This sea of flannel and denim grows larger as the clock ticks towards launch time. Groups of rocketeers swarm from one spot to another, welcoming one another, the LCO, the RSO, and the vendor as they eagerly wait for the first rocket to tell them where the wind is blowing and how hard. Some nervously wait to prepare their flights, while others press ahead, confident in their master-builds and precise calculations. Still others ramble towards to vendor’s trailer to pick up their latest purchase and maybe add another motor or five since the sky is so clear.
Entering the yawning door of the Wildman Hobbies rocketry trailer, row upon row of rocket motors reach for the rocketeers and call to their wallets. Wall-to-wall tubes lean at odd angles, an overwhelming assortment of possibilities waiting to be selected. A Willy-Wonka-esque, wiry-haired figure meets them with a gleam in his eye; Tim knows exactly how to provoke a bigger, badder purchase to punch the rocket just a little more because mild men will not do, this is a place for wild men only. The cramped interior is stuffed floor-to-ceiling with drawers, shelves, closets, people, shouting, and laughter. Mild disparaging barbs spur friends to purchase expensive extras as the black-hole register churns out receipt after receipt after receipt. No one really minds their growing tab as everyone scampers out with a smile and a box or four, heading back to their cars to finally begin prepping for the launch just minutes away.
As waiver time approaches, people ready their rockets, flitting hurriedly around tables and trunks along the line of cars, trucks, and trailers spread down the dirt farm road. Methodical fingers nervously wire black powder charges and carefully twist screwdrivers while probes test batteries and altimeters beep out diagnostics. Shaky hands stuff fireproof recovery wadding into rocket body tubes; sometimes missing the tube, little puffs of grey dog-barf float to the ground. Others precisely pack parachutes, rolling them in black Nomex blankets while quicklinks and swivels twinkle from table to table. Messy piles of tools, wires, and other flotsam grow steadily under rockets sitting on angled PVC stands. As rocket sections come together with a “thunk,” and sheer pins are tapped into place, the rocketeers warily eye the waiting launch pads.
The tiny forest of empty launch pads impatiently anticipate their approaching companions. Gleaming aluminum launch rails poke 6 or 8 feet into the air, contrasted sharply by their more aged companions who are tainted black with the soot of countless past launches. Pitted, rusty steel plates sit underneath the rods, blasted into a shadow of their former pure metal. Each pad’s spindly spider legs stretch across the ground, reaching out to stabilize the hefty rockets that will soon fire their engines. Electrical leads spread out like vines around the ground, anxiously reaching out to give life to the propellant while threatening to trip the careless flier carrying his rocket.
Marching carefully to the pads, rocketeers restlessly load their rockets, tensely fidgeting with launch angle and pad legs. After a few twists-and-tucks, altimeters start beeping, announcing their readiness to soar. Hopeful hands place ignitors carefully up the tailpipe and cap them in place. After connecting the leads, rocketeers step back with a nervous sigh, a million fears and images of past CATOs flashing through their heads. Anxious, twitching smiles flash between hobbyists, wishing each other, “Straight smoke and open ‘chutes!” Together, they meander nervously back to the flight line. Their rockets remain behind, taking aim at the sky. Some fat, some skinny, some tall, some short, this awkward stand of trees sways slightly in the breeze. Flashes of glossy fiberglass and cardboard glint sunlight back at the crowd. Colorful paint schemes show off patient skill while globs of epoxy cry out, reminding everyone of past mishaps. Impatient, the body tubes and nosecones twitch slightly as the countdown begins.
The LCO announces the rocket and its creator before beginning his 5-count. The moment he presses the button, all the hopes, dreams, skills, and hours of labor leap into the sky, screaming upwards, leaving a trail of black and grey smoke, tipped with a bright orange flame, a rainshower of glowing titanium sparks sprinkling the field below. As the rocket punches further and higher, the roaring motor echoes for the exhilarated crowd. This investment of love, labor, and treasure streaks through the blue, soaring out of sight. Apprehensive silence grips the crowd as they count the seconds; the momentary thrill fading quickly into nervousness as everyone waits for the parachute to pop. And they wait.
And they wait. Two seconds seems a lifetime, five seconds turns stomachs queasy, and ten seconds aches like a lifetime of anxiousness. Finally, a puff of white smoke announces the successful apogee charge and parachute deployment. Everyone sighs relieved, reassured; one observer sighs more deeply, pleased at his rocket’s success. As it gracefully descends under its colorful parachute, it dangles gently in the sky, hanging on twenty feet or more of yellow Kevlar, bouncing and twisting in the wind. Like a bird floating on a thermal breeze, the rocket slowly drifts lower and lower towards the muddy farmland where it will wait to be recovered. The flier, filled with pride, has to fight the urge to simply enjoy this spectacular moment as he sets himself to get a precise line on where the rocket will land hopefully not too far across the sludge.
The occasionally arduous job of rocket-hunting begins once the rocket settles down into the mud. Rocketeers set out in pairs with receivers in hand, listening intently for the beeps that point the way to their prize. Ten paces through muck, stopping, readjusting, then ten more, and repeat, two or more friends tromp methodically across the mud field, tracing a slight zig-zag path, nervous for what they might or might not find. Crossing creek beds, hills, and semi-swamps, they hunt further, searching for their runaway creation. Their apprehension breaks momentarily when they hear an altimeter beeping in the distance. Fighting the urge to risk running across the swampy field, they can make out the back-up altimeter announcing its success as well. Plotting carefully and concentrating on the horizon, they finally spot a fluttering touch of color. The red and blue parachute flits and twitches, fighting the wind, proclaiming a successful flight. Approaching the sprawling line of rocket booster, shock cord, payload, more shock cord, parachute, and finally nosecone, the compatriots stand still, barely breathing, counting the beeps, carefully tallying the altitude.
1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8...9… … … again, and again until it chirps out the details of its ascent. 9,999 feet! Success. Well, damn close. A single foot short! Oh the agony! Wait, that just means it has to launch again; a bigger motor guarantees 10,000! “Hey, Tim! Do you have a K300 on hand? …”
