***Out In The Be-Bop 1950s Night- The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming - Markin’s 1950s Sputnik Space Odyssey-Billie Style
Billie, William James Bradley, comment:
Yah, I know I haven’t talked to you in too long a while like I told you I would. I was supposed to tell you all about my best friend over at Adamsville Elementary School Markin’s, Peter Paul Markin’s, ill-fated attempts to single-handedly close the space gap they keep talking about ever since the commies put that Sputnik satellite up in orbit last year. Some of you know that I had to put that on hold because I was still kind of broken up about something. Yah, for you that don’t know I got caught up in some, well I might as well just come out with it, woman trouble, alright girl trouble, okay. That’s over now since I discovered Elvis’ real take on the honeys, One Night Of Sin and now have a new girlfriend, well, really an old girlfriend, an old stick girlfriend, Cool Donna O’Toole, that I had, as Markin always kids me about, “discarded” when love Laura came into view. But that isn’t getting us to the Markin space odyssey you’ve been waiting breathlessly to hear about.
And I will get to that in just a second now that I think about it, or the heart of the story, but let me just take a minute to tell you this background story because it also explains part of the time for my delay in telling the story. It seems that Markin had no objection, and shouldn’t, to having his space odyssey story told but he just wanted to tell the story himself. I said no way, no way on this good green earth are you going to tell this one. By the time he got done we would all be weepy, girl weepy, or something about Markin’s tremendous contribution to space science rather than the simple truth- Markin should not be let with fifty miles, no, make that five hundred miles, no, let’s be on the safe side, five thousand miles from anything that could even be remotely used for launching rockets. Yah, it’s that kind of story.
Besides, here is the real reason that Markin shouldn’t tell the story, and I told him so. Markin, no question is a history guy. He is crazy for people like Abigail Adams, and her husband and son, the guys who used to be Presidents, John and John Quincy, back in the Stone Age, and who Adamsville is named after, one of them anyway. He also knows, although I have no clue why, about old times in Egypt, Pharaoh and his quirky slave-driving ways, the Pyramids, you know mummies and stuff like that, from going to the Thomas Crane Public Library branch at school and walking, walking can you believe this, over to Boston to the Museum of Fine Arts to check out their mummy stuff, and tombs and how they dressed and all that. Yawn.
Markin is also crazy for reading, not stuff that is required for school reading either, and writing about it, a book guy, no doubt. Get this, he just told me about a book of short stories that he was reading about by a guy, an Irish guy, a chandelier Irish guy, Fitzgerald or something like that, who wrote stories about rich kids, very rich kids, rich guys with names like Basil mooning over rich girls. And rich girls with names like Josephine swooning over guys. Nothing big about that but like I told Markin how is reading that stuff going to do anything for you, for us, trying, trying like crazy to get the hell, excuse my English, of the projects. He’s a cloudy guy see, even if he is my best friend.
But here is something funny, and maybe makes this reading stuff of some use sometimes. Markin read in the Foreword, who the hell, excuse my language again, in this good green earth reads the Foreword, that one of the stories, one of the Basil stories wasn’t published because the publishers didn’t believe back in the early part of this century that ten and eleven year old boys and girls would be into “petting parties.” Jesus, and I make no excuse for saying that, where have those guys been, and what planet. Definitely not down here with us poor project boys and girls. Hey, I might even read that story come to think of it to see if petting parties are the same with rich kids. So history and book reading. Does that sound like a guy who can tell a space story, a nuts and bolts space story. No leave this one to old Billie, he’ll tell it true.
I don’t know about you but I was not all that hopped up about space exploration, space races, or Jules Verne although I will admit that I was a little excited about the idea of those space satellites going up in the sky, those that started with the Soviet Union’s first object in space, Sputnik. But when they started sending robots, monkeys, mice, and small dogs I lost interest. I figured how hard can it be to do the space thing if rodents can make the trip, unmolested. Besides I had my budding career as a rock star of the Elvis sort to worry about so other kinds of stars took a back seat.
No so Markin. The minute he heard, or maybe it was a little later but pretty soon after, that Sputnik had gone up, that it had been the Russkies who were first in space, he was crazy to enlist in the space race. I swear I had to stop talking to him for a few days because all he wanted to talk about, with that certain demented look in his eye that told you that you were in for a lecture like at school, was how it was every red-blooded student’s, make that every red-blooded American student’s duty to get moving in aid of the space front. It was so bad that he would not even heard me talk about the latest rock hit without saying, hey, that’s kid’s stuff I got no time for that. Bad, right.
Now this was not about money, you know going around the neighborhood collecting coins for the space program like we did to restore the U.S.S. Constitution when it was all water-logged or whatever happens to wooden ships when they get too old. And it was not about maybe going to the library to get some books to study up on science and maybe someday become a space engineer and go to Cape Canaveral or someplace like that. No this was about our duty, duty see, to go out in the back yard, go down in the cellar, go out in the garage (if you had a garage, we didn’t in the projects) and start to experiment making rockets that might be able to make it to space. See what I mean. Deep-end stuff, no question.
Now I already told you, but in case you might have forgotten, Markin is nothing but a books and history guy, and maybe a little music. I have never seen him put a hammer to a nail or anything like that, and I am not sure that he has those skills. I do know that when we were making paper mache dinosaurs in class his thing did not look like a dinosaur. Not close. But one day he got me to go with him up to Adamsville Center to the hardware store to get materials for making a rocket. Markin is nothing if not serious in his little projects, at first. At the store we get some balsa wood, nails, aluminum poles, guide wire, a knife built for carving stuff, and about ten CO2 cartridges. The idea is to build a model (or models) and see which ones have the contours to be space-worthy.
Over the next couple of weeks I saw Markin off and on but mainly off because he was spending his after-school time down in the cellar of the apartment where his family lived working on those balsa wood models. Then one day, one Saturday I think, yah, it was Saturday he came over to my house looking for help in setting up his launch pad. The idea was that he would put up two aluminum poles, stretch the guide wire between the two poles and demonstrate what he called the aerodynamic flow of his models by attaching his balsa wood models on the wire with a bent nail. Propulsion was by inserting a CO2 cartridge in a crevice in the rocket and hitting one end of the cartridge by lightly hitting it with a nail. I was to observe at the finish while he covered the start. After about half an hour everything was set to go and Dr. Markin was ready to set the explosion. Except moon man Markin hit the nail into the cartridge at the wrong place and, if it had not been for some quick leg work that I still chuckle over when I think about it (like now) my friend would have lost an eye. Scratch balsa wood models.
Oh, you thought that was the end of it. Christ no. After catching some hell from his mother (and a little from me) he was back on the trail- blazing away. This time though he kept it very low. I didn’t even know about it until he asked me to help him get some materials from that same hardware store and the drug store uptown. So here is the brain-storm in a nut shell. He said he saw the error of his ways in the balsa wood fiasco- he had used the wrong fuel and the whole guide wire thing was awry. This time he intended to simulate (yah, I didn’t know what that meant either until he told me it was like practically the same but not the real thing, or something like that) a launching like he had seen on television and in the Bell Laboratories Science films we saw at school. Okay, get this, he built, using his father’s soldering iron, a small rocket out of tin soup cans (Campbell’s, naturally, just kidding) with a tin funnel on top and flattened metal for wings. Hey, it really didn’t look bad. The fuel, I swear I do not know all the ingredients but they all came from either the hardware or drug store so that gives you an idea about something. Apparently he read about it somewhere.
So, again on black Saturday, we are off to the back field to launch the spaceship Billie (named after me, of course) into fame and fortune. We set the rocket on a small launch pad that he made; he put in the fuel from a can, and then closed it off with a fuse device at the end. I, as honoree, was to light the match for take-off. I lit the match alright except a funny thing happened-the rocket quickly, very quickly turned into an inferno, and me along with it, except I too did some fancy leg work. Christ, Markin enough. And the lesson to be learned- you had better be young, quick, and have your insurance paid up if you are going to hang out with maddened rocket scientists. After that experiment I think old Markin lost heart. The other day I saw him reading a book about Abraham Lincoln so I guess the coast is clear now. Oh yah, and at school yesterday he asked me if I had heard Jerry Lee Lewis’ Breathlessyet. Welcome back to Earth, Markin.
Billie, William James Bradley, comment:
Yah, I know I haven’t talked to you in too long a while like I told you I would. I was supposed to tell you all about my best friend over at Adamsville Elementary School Markin’s, Peter Paul Markin’s, ill-fated attempts to single-handedly close the space gap they keep talking about ever since the commies put that Sputnik satellite up in orbit last year. Some of you know that I had to put that on hold because I was still kind of broken up about something. Yah, for you that don’t know I got caught up in some, well I might as well just come out with it, woman trouble, alright girl trouble, okay. That’s over now since I discovered Elvis’ real take on the honeys, One Night Of Sin and now have a new girlfriend, well, really an old girlfriend, an old stick girlfriend, Cool Donna O’Toole, that I had, as Markin always kids me about, “discarded” when love Laura came into view. But that isn’t getting us to the Markin space odyssey you’ve been waiting breathlessly to hear about.
And I will get to that in just a second now that I think about it, or the heart of the story, but let me just take a minute to tell you this background story because it also explains part of the time for my delay in telling the story. It seems that Markin had no objection, and shouldn’t, to having his space odyssey story told but he just wanted to tell the story himself. I said no way, no way on this good green earth are you going to tell this one. By the time he got done we would all be weepy, girl weepy, or something about Markin’s tremendous contribution to space science rather than the simple truth- Markin should not be let with fifty miles, no, make that five hundred miles, no, let’s be on the safe side, five thousand miles from anything that could even be remotely used for launching rockets. Yah, it’s that kind of story.
Besides, here is the real reason that Markin shouldn’t tell the story, and I told him so. Markin, no question is a history guy. He is crazy for people like Abigail Adams, and her husband and son, the guys who used to be Presidents, John and John Quincy, back in the Stone Age, and who Adamsville is named after, one of them anyway. He also knows, although I have no clue why, about old times in Egypt, Pharaoh and his quirky slave-driving ways, the Pyramids, you know mummies and stuff like that, from going to the Thomas Crane Public Library branch at school and walking, walking can you believe this, over to Boston to the Museum of Fine Arts to check out their mummy stuff, and tombs and how they dressed and all that. Yawn.
Markin is also crazy for reading, not stuff that is required for school reading either, and writing about it, a book guy, no doubt. Get this, he just told me about a book of short stories that he was reading about by a guy, an Irish guy, a chandelier Irish guy, Fitzgerald or something like that, who wrote stories about rich kids, very rich kids, rich guys with names like Basil mooning over rich girls. And rich girls with names like Josephine swooning over guys. Nothing big about that but like I told Markin how is reading that stuff going to do anything for you, for us, trying, trying like crazy to get the hell, excuse my English, of the projects. He’s a cloudy guy see, even if he is my best friend.
But here is something funny, and maybe makes this reading stuff of some use sometimes. Markin read in the Foreword, who the hell, excuse my language again, in this good green earth reads the Foreword, that one of the stories, one of the Basil stories wasn’t published because the publishers didn’t believe back in the early part of this century that ten and eleven year old boys and girls would be into “petting parties.” Jesus, and I make no excuse for saying that, where have those guys been, and what planet. Definitely not down here with us poor project boys and girls. Hey, I might even read that story come to think of it to see if petting parties are the same with rich kids. So history and book reading. Does that sound like a guy who can tell a space story, a nuts and bolts space story. No leave this one to old Billie, he’ll tell it true.
I don’t know about you but I was not all that hopped up about space exploration, space races, or Jules Verne although I will admit that I was a little excited about the idea of those space satellites going up in the sky, those that started with the Soviet Union’s first object in space, Sputnik. But when they started sending robots, monkeys, mice, and small dogs I lost interest. I figured how hard can it be to do the space thing if rodents can make the trip, unmolested. Besides I had my budding career as a rock star of the Elvis sort to worry about so other kinds of stars took a back seat.
No so Markin. The minute he heard, or maybe it was a little later but pretty soon after, that Sputnik had gone up, that it had been the Russkies who were first in space, he was crazy to enlist in the space race. I swear I had to stop talking to him for a few days because all he wanted to talk about, with that certain demented look in his eye that told you that you were in for a lecture like at school, was how it was every red-blooded student’s, make that every red-blooded American student’s duty to get moving in aid of the space front. It was so bad that he would not even heard me talk about the latest rock hit without saying, hey, that’s kid’s stuff I got no time for that. Bad, right.
Now this was not about money, you know going around the neighborhood collecting coins for the space program like we did to restore the U.S.S. Constitution when it was all water-logged or whatever happens to wooden ships when they get too old. And it was not about maybe going to the library to get some books to study up on science and maybe someday become a space engineer and go to Cape Canaveral or someplace like that. No this was about our duty, duty see, to go out in the back yard, go down in the cellar, go out in the garage (if you had a garage, we didn’t in the projects) and start to experiment making rockets that might be able to make it to space. See what I mean. Deep-end stuff, no question.
Now I already told you, but in case you might have forgotten, Markin is nothing but a books and history guy, and maybe a little music. I have never seen him put a hammer to a nail or anything like that, and I am not sure that he has those skills. I do know that when we were making paper mache dinosaurs in class his thing did not look like a dinosaur. Not close. But one day he got me to go with him up to Adamsville Center to the hardware store to get materials for making a rocket. Markin is nothing if not serious in his little projects, at first. At the store we get some balsa wood, nails, aluminum poles, guide wire, a knife built for carving stuff, and about ten CO2 cartridges. The idea is to build a model (or models) and see which ones have the contours to be space-worthy.
Over the next couple of weeks I saw Markin off and on but mainly off because he was spending his after-school time down in the cellar of the apartment where his family lived working on those balsa wood models. Then one day, one Saturday I think, yah, it was Saturday he came over to my house looking for help in setting up his launch pad. The idea was that he would put up two aluminum poles, stretch the guide wire between the two poles and demonstrate what he called the aerodynamic flow of his models by attaching his balsa wood models on the wire with a bent nail. Propulsion was by inserting a CO2 cartridge in a crevice in the rocket and hitting one end of the cartridge by lightly hitting it with a nail. I was to observe at the finish while he covered the start. After about half an hour everything was set to go and Dr. Markin was ready to set the explosion. Except moon man Markin hit the nail into the cartridge at the wrong place and, if it had not been for some quick leg work that I still chuckle over when I think about it (like now) my friend would have lost an eye. Scratch balsa wood models.
Oh, you thought that was the end of it. Christ no. After catching some hell from his mother (and a little from me) he was back on the trail- blazing away. This time though he kept it very low. I didn’t even know about it until he asked me to help him get some materials from that same hardware store and the drug store uptown. So here is the brain-storm in a nut shell. He said he saw the error of his ways in the balsa wood fiasco- he had used the wrong fuel and the whole guide wire thing was awry. This time he intended to simulate (yah, I didn’t know what that meant either until he told me it was like practically the same but not the real thing, or something like that) a launching like he had seen on television and in the Bell Laboratories Science films we saw at school. Okay, get this, he built, using his father’s soldering iron, a small rocket out of tin soup cans (Campbell’s, naturally, just kidding) with a tin funnel on top and flattened metal for wings. Hey, it really didn’t look bad. The fuel, I swear I do not know all the ingredients but they all came from either the hardware or drug store so that gives you an idea about something. Apparently he read about it somewhere.
So, again on black Saturday, we are off to the back field to launch the spaceship Billie (named after me, of course) into fame and fortune. We set the rocket on a small launch pad that he made; he put in the fuel from a can, and then closed it off with a fuse device at the end. I, as honoree, was to light the match for take-off. I lit the match alright except a funny thing happened-the rocket quickly, very quickly turned into an inferno, and me along with it, except I too did some fancy leg work. Christ, Markin enough. And the lesson to be learned- you had better be young, quick, and have your insurance paid up if you are going to hang out with maddened rocket scientists. After that experiment I think old Markin lost heart. The other day I saw him reading a book about Abraham Lincoln so I guess the coast is clear now. Oh yah, and at school yesterday he asked me if I had heard Jerry Lee Lewis’ Breathlessyet. Welcome back to Earth, Markin.
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