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The Model Rockets That Carried Us to the Stars
Inspired by the space race, we defined ourselves by our choice of miniature machines
For me, the Space Age began on the weed-choked field behind North School in Glencoe, Ill., in 1976. That’s where Mr. Irmis, who drove a VW microbus and taught us science, math and sex ed, convened the elementary-school model rocket club on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Mr. Irmis taught us how to pick out, assemble and launch any of the dozens of model rockets available at Tom Thumb hobby shop in Evanston, where allowances were squandered and wishes came true.
It was understood that building and launching must never be rushed—take time to enjoy the smell of the glue! Just as at NASA, launches were carefully scheduled. Just as at NASA, weather was always a factor. Countdowns were delayed by high winds and storms, missions scrubbed. Though there were no actual astronauts in our care, we were told to behave as if there were. You are not merely hobbyists, said Mr. Irmis, but engineers on the first rung of a ladder that leads all the way up to Mission Control in Houston.
In building our model rockets, we were partaking in the excitement of the space race and staking our own claim to the future. We were on a timeline that started with the Wright Brothers, included the rocketing pioneer Werner von Braun and went all the way to Alpha Centauri.
The model rocket boom really began in the months following the 1957 launch of Sputnik, the Russian satellite that made Americans feel as if they were suddenly living beneath a roving red Communist eye. Hobbyists were driven by a high octane of wonder (let’s go to space!) and fear (Commies!).
The first true model rockets were built by Orville and Robert Carlisle, the Wright brothers of the trade, with the help of G. Harry Stine, a civilian safety officer at White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico—home of the atomic bomb—who’d published an article in Mechanix Illustrated about building model rockets without blowing yourself up. Colorado fireworks-maker Vernon Estes designed the all-important rocket engines, with power classifications running A to O. For us, a D engine carried the power and menace of nuclear fission.
Young people today often define themselves by a Twitter profile or Instagram bio; we defined ourselves by model rocket. It was understood that the rocket you chose said a lot about you as a person—your hopes, dreams, limitations.
A kid with an Estes Alpha was a rank amateur. He had nothing to tell you. A kid with a Cox X-15, inspired by the rocket plane Joe Walker flew to the rim of space, was respected as a veteran. There was also the Cox Saturn V, a scale model of the rocket that NASA used to put Buzz Aldrin, Michael Collins and Neil Armstrong into lunar orbit. The M.P.C. Vostok was based on a Soviet rocket. Choosing it made you a dubious character. My favorite was the Big Daddy, a bullet shaped rocket powered by C, D and E engines that regularly broke the thousand foot barrier—our Mach 1.
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O n launch day, your rocket was attached by a metal rod to the pad. Club members stood in a circle counting down from 10, Mr. Irmis moving among them like old Werner himself. At zero, you pressed an igniter that sent an electric charge through two wires, firing the engines. The rocket lifted off with a noise that sounded like tearing paper—pffft!
Then the machine was just a speck in the sky. You ran under it, heart in your mouth. The parachute deployed. You watched it drift down. If you were lucky, it did not get hung up in a power line or tree. Unlike the Saturn V, our rockets could be used again.
It taught us not just science but how to be citizens. It made us feel like we were part of the national project. It felt dangerous, even if it wasn’t.
The fact that model rocketry is no longer a central activity for kids is a shame, because it made us feel like we had a part to play in the future. The launch was exciting because it was the fruition of all that work, because of the noise and smoke, but also because it bridged the distance between earth and space in a heartbeat, and carried us with it.
Corrections & Amplifications
Test pilot Joe Walker flew the rocket plane X-15 to the rim of space. An earlier version of this article incorrectly implied that Chuck Yeager piloted the X-15. Also, an earlier version of the correction incorrectly said Joe Walker flew a Cox X-15, which is the model plane based on the rocket. (Corrected on June 2.)
The Model Rockets That Carried Us to the Stars
Inspired by the space race, we defined ourselves by our choice of miniature machines
For me, the Space Age began on the weed-choked field behind North School in Glencoe, Ill., in 1976. That’s where Mr. Irmis, who drove a VW microbus and taught us science, math and sex ed, convened the elementary-school model rocket club on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Mr. Irmis taught us how to pick out, assemble and launch any of the dozens of model rockets available at Tom Thumb hobby shop in Evanston, where allowances were squandered and wishes came true.
It was understood that building and launching must never be rushed—take time to enjoy the smell of the glue! Just as at NASA, launches were carefully scheduled. Just as at NASA, weather was always a factor. Countdowns were delayed by high winds and storms, missions scrubbed. Though there were no actual astronauts in our care, we were told to behave as if there were. You are not merely hobbyists, said Mr. Irmis, but engineers on the first rung of a ladder that leads all the way up to Mission Control in Houston.
In building our model rockets, we were partaking in the excitement of the space race and staking our own claim to the future. We were on a timeline that started with the Wright Brothers, included the rocketing pioneer Werner von Braun and went all the way to Alpha Centauri.
The model rocket boom really began in the months following the 1957 launch of Sputnik, the Russian satellite that made Americans feel as if they were suddenly living beneath a roving red Communist eye. Hobbyists were driven by a high octane of wonder (let’s go to space!) and fear (Commies!).
The first true model rockets were built by Orville and Robert Carlisle, the Wright brothers of the trade, with the help of G. Harry Stine, a civilian safety officer at White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico—home of the atomic bomb—who’d published an article in Mechanix Illustrated about building model rockets without blowing yourself up. Colorado fireworks-maker Vernon Estes designed the all-important rocket engines, with power classifications running A to O. For us, a D engine carried the power and menace of nuclear fission.
Young people today often define themselves by a Twitter profile or Instagram bio; we defined ourselves by model rocket. It was understood that the rocket you chose said a lot about you as a person—your hopes, dreams, limitations.
A kid with an Estes Alpha was a rank amateur. He had nothing to tell you. A kid with a Cox X-15, inspired by the rocket plane Joe Walker flew to the rim of space, was respected as a veteran. There was also the Cox Saturn V, a scale model of the rocket that NASA used to put Buzz Aldrin, Michael Collins and Neil Armstrong into lunar orbit. The M.P.C. Vostok was based on a Soviet rocket. Choosing it made you a dubious character. My favorite was the Big Daddy, a bullet shaped rocket powered by C, D and E engines that regularly broke the thousand foot barrier—our Mach 1.
SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS
Do you have model-rocket memories? Join the conversation below.
To comment, you’ll need to be on WSJ.com
O n launch day, your rocket was attached by a metal rod to the pad. Club members stood in a circle counting down from 10, Mr. Irmis moving among them like old Werner himself. At zero, you pressed an igniter that sent an electric charge through two wires, firing the engines. The rocket lifted off with a noise that sounded like tearing paper—pffft!
Then the machine was just a speck in the sky. You ran under it, heart in your mouth. The parachute deployed. You watched it drift down. If you were lucky, it did not get hung up in a power line or tree. Unlike the Saturn V, our rockets could be used again.
It taught us not just science but how to be citizens. It made us feel like we were part of the national project. It felt dangerous, even if it wasn’t.
The fact that model rocketry is no longer a central activity for kids is a shame, because it made us feel like we had a part to play in the future. The launch was exciting because it was the fruition of all that work, because of the noise and smoke, but also because it bridged the distance between earth and space in a heartbeat, and carried us with it.
Corrections & Amplifications
Test pilot Joe Walker flew the rocket plane X-15 to the rim of space. An earlier version of this article incorrectly implied that Chuck Yeager piloted the X-15. Also, an earlier version of the correction incorrectly said Joe Walker flew a Cox X-15, which is the model plane based on the rocket. (Corrected on June 2.)
