Tommy Karr

In the eighth grade, after busily trading Garbage Pail Kids card and drawing Archie-inspired cartoons of my best friends, I joined our 4-H club and excitedly planned out how I would raise my pig and what tricks I would teach it.

However, being a small school in Goose Creek, primarily occupied by Navy brats, and not being near any farm animals, we were left to choose from other projects that fit within the 4-H model.

Logic and safety aside, I chose rockets.  I had always wanted to build them and, acknowledging that they would be much cleaner than pigs, hastily went to work putting the idea into my mom’s head so that she would sign the necessary permission slip.  Previously, I had begged her for the chance to play with the rocket kits I saw in the Sears Wish Book, but her reply had always been “Too dangerous.”

Whether because it now had an educational component or because it meant she wouldn’t have to have pigs in the house, she caved in.

The kits were relatively simple.  Each had a rocket that you simply plugged an ignition cartridge into and then connected that to the single-button launch controller and voila… instant space program.

It was during a lunch-time 4-H program that my club members, Mrs. Blackman (our sponsor and Earth science teacher) and I marched into the open field (far beyond the recess area and out of harm’s way of the school).  I set up the launch pad, plugged in my ignition cartridge and, in true “space commander” form, instructed everyone to stand back.  This was the moment.

The group stood in awe as I began the countdown.  “In ten, nine, eight…” and they joined in… “seven, six, five…” my nerves were a mess and I was sweating in eager anticipation of watching my rocket launch and then soar above the Earth.  Inside the rocket was a parachute that would unfurl once it reached a certain altitude and that would allow it to glide back to Earth safely.

“…three, two, one…” I pressed the button.  The rocket trembled.  You could hear the popping and spitting noise coming from the ignition cartridge.  The launchpad rocked slightly and then in an instant the rocket shot into the air, climbing hundreds, no THOUSANDS of feet above us.  My smile stretched behind my ears and the corners of my mouth must have met behind my head.  I did it!

There was applause all around.  Everyone watched as the rocket shrunk to a single, black point and then, just as it almost seemed to disappear, it slowed and hovered.  The dot wiggled a bit and then started to grow again.  It had barely become a rocket-shaped thing again when the parachute unfurled and…

“Oh crap!”  I didn’t even realize the words had come out of my mouth nor did I bother to acknowledge Mrs. Blackman’s disapproving look.  The parachute had unfurled alright, but a sudden rush of wind caught the sail and the rocket went flying over the woods.  An audible sound of panic came over the crowd but that quickly changed to a disappointed “Awwww.”

The rocket lost altitude and disappeared someone in the forest.

“Well, that was fun,” said Mrs. Blackman.  “Let’s get back inside. Almost time for class.”

NO!  We couldn’t leave yet.  I had to get my rocket back.  I hadn’t worked this hard or built up this much expectation to abandon my mission!

“Mrs. Blackman!  Can I try to find it?” I was begging her.

“May I?” she corrected.

Grrr.  “May I try to find my rocket?”

“Fine. But be careful and be back in ten minutes.”  Nowadays no teacher would dare to let a child wander into the woods.  But this was 1987 and, for whatever reason, the world was more relaxed.

A few friends volunteered to help me.  The team headed toward the woods while the rest of the club followed Mrs. Blackman back toward the school.

We wandered deep into the thick forest toward the place where I believed the rocket to have landed.  The trees crisscrossed above leaving just enough room for sunlight to pierce through and the woods took on an eerie, other-worldly sensation.  We marched on until we reached one of the “fire trails”.  These were wide paths through the woods in town, plowed open by the military to prevent fires from spreading from the base to the residential areas.  I, and most kids, used them as extreme bike tracks.  I’d never been in the woods near school before so the discovery of a new “fire trail” deep in the dark was thrilling.

“Let’s see where it goes,” someone suggested and we followed it east until it opened into a large, man-made clearing.  Just as we stepped out into the light a monstrous tank rolled past and our tiny team of explorers jumped back.  We’d wandered into a practice field for military exercises.  “Run!” someone else shouted and we hauled tail back into the woods.  I don’t think we were in any real danger but the idea that the military was practicing for a future battle and we were a rag-tag bunch of seventh graders getting in their way seemed like a bad mix.

In our haste we followed the fire trail back toward the school when suddenly we spotted a small house, old and decrepit, sitting a hundred yards off to the right.  “Jesus! Who lives out here?” someone else asked and a cold chill ran through my bones.  Surely this house was abandoned.  There was no road to get to it and the fire trails were relatively new so I was unlikely that an occupant would have been using the trails to come and go.  “Let’s check it out.” Famous last words.

I was terrified, but I followed the group closer to the house and just as we got within a few yards it came.  The sound that signifies imminent death in horror movies.  The chainsaw. “Runnnnn-nnna-naaa-naanannnn.”  The horrible grinding, chewing sound of the saw went from faint to “Holy shit!” within seconds and without looking for the source and without signal from any one person, we bolted, together, flying back toward the fire trail, leaping over it (Why aren’t we taking the trail?) and trampling the brush beneath us as we raced through the darkness praying to find the open field which would signify our return to school.

Someone tripped or stumbled or, What is that smell?  One of the team had collided with a skunk.  No one had seen it.  We were running too fast to pay attention to little things like wildlife.  I wasn’t even sure we could hear the chainsaw anymore.  I wasn’t even sure that we had heard the chainsaw.  Was it just our childhood imagination??  I didn’t bother to think through it.  All I knew was the military, a mass-murderer and a skunk were now after us and we needed the protection of Mrs. Blackman and the walls of Marrington Middle School.

Sunlight.  The trees seemed to part and the field opened up before us.  We popped out of the forest and found ourselves on another side of the clearing, not near where we’d begun our adventure.  We stopped to catch our breath and listened.  Nothing. No chainsaw, no military.  But the putrid smell of skunk was strong.  We fell to the ground laughing.

Eventually we went inside and joined the rest of school in post-lunch classwork.  “Where have you…?” Mrs. Blackman started, but her nose curled up and her face pinched.  “What in the…?”  She couldn’t get a whole question out as the odor of skunk permeated the room.  “Ewwww!” came a collective cry from the rest of the students.

We didn’t find the rocket.  We did succeed in scaring the hell out of ourselves and ending up rank-smelling.  But it is this type of adventure that marked my childhood with pride.  I’d dared the darkness with my best friends and survived.  Time to put this into the comic, I thought as I sketched out my Archie-inspired cartoon gang that night.

Is there a moral to this story?  I suppose, You’re friends are your family and will see you through skunk and scare.  Keep them close and you’ll always be prepared for the next adventure.

Damn, I miss growing up.