Free The Coalwood Way by Homer Hickam

laboratory mixing the goopy gray gunk we called zincoshine. We followed a set routine, never deviating from what we knew to be safe. First a small amount of zinc dust was measured into a wooden mixing bowl, followed by an appropriate amount of sulfur. After that, we poured enough of John Eye’s finest into the mix to make a thick slurry. We’d mix the ingredients in the bowl with a wooden spoon or our hands until it had turned a uniform gray, and then scrape it out on a cookie sheet. A rolling pin was used to squeeze out excess alcohol. Each small batch we produced was enough for us to load a few inches of propellant into a casement. We mixed and loaded, giving a minimum of one hour between loads for the zincoshine to “cure” in the casement. It was a slow, tedious process, but Sherman and I loved to do it. We’d listen to rock and roll on the little Japanese radio I owned, or talk about girls, or gossip about the goings and comings of Coalwood people. We were never bored.
    At no extra charge, Mr. Clinton Caton, the machinist who usually did our work, had come up with a slightly higher-carbon steel for the nozzle we were going to use on our next rocket. Luckily, just when we needed it, he’d had a few lengths of the special bar stock left over from a company job. Quentin was certain we would lick the erosion problem with the new steel, but there was only one way to find out: launch a rocket using it. Sherman and I were loading what I’d designated
Auk XXII-F,
pretty much a copy of the last rocket we’d fired except for the new steel.
    To mix our propellants and load our rockets, I had built a small laboratory in the basement of our house. It was just a piece of plywood across the washing machine, which sat beside twin laundry sinks over which shelves groaned with our chemicals and mixing utensils. I had liberated most of my propellant-mixing hardware from Mom’s kitchen. She’d never asked for any of it back. I think she was afraid of being poisoned or blown up.
    For safety, Sherman was wearing rubber dishwashing gloves, a heavy woolen overcoat, and a ball cap with a piece of plastic taped to the brim to protect his eyes. I was pretty much dressed the same way, and we were sweating because not more than ten feet away was a coal-fired furnace. As long as we kept the grate shut, it was safe. We also kept the basement door cracked to the outside to make certain the lab was ventilated.
    I heard the upstairs door creak open. “Sonny, what are you doing down there?” Mom asked from the kitchen.
    “We’re loading a rocket, Mom,” I said casually.
    Her response was just as casual, although there was a hint of resignation in it. “Well, don’t blow yourself up,” she said for about the millionth time since I had become a Rocket Boy. “You either, Sherman,” she added.
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said. Sherman seemed to slouch under the weight of all his protective gear, but it was really because he always held one foot at an acute angle from the other and kept his weight on his good leg.
    “The Women’s Club meeting is going to start in about ten minutes,” Mom continued from above. “How about not making too much noise while they’re here? Also, I’d appreciate it if you gave the place a little air.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” I answered, and screwed the top on the fruit jar of moonshine and then went over and opened the basement door as wide as it would go. Since we’d gotten into zincoshine, Mom had told every nose-wrinkling visitor to the house, “I’m not running a juke joint here. It’s just Sonny’s . . .” and then the visitor would chime in unison with her, “. . . rocket stuff in the basement,” nodding in sympathy.
    There were still some people in Coalwood who believed the Rocket Boys were the town’s special burden. I guess we had caused more than a little uproar over the years. One of our first rockets had careened into Dad’s office at the mine, causing him to order me to never launch another