The summer of 1954 melded into autumn and Terry Vance and I started our sophomore year. Warm, fair weather continued well into October which lent itself to my experiments in the unheated garage/laboratory behind the Sutherland house.
The Sutherland house was on Woodland Avenue which, during the early 50s, was pretty much the eastern residential edge of Swanton, Ohio. Beyond our back yard lay nothing but farmland and woods extending into western Lucas County. This was an ideal setup for a delusional young 'rocket scientist' who needed open, unoccupied territory for his 'testing grounds'.
By that time I had already done considerable experimenting with various explosive and/or fast burning chemical combinations. Homemade gunpowder was, of course, the first explosive material I concocted simply because I could easily look up its formulation in an encyclopedia. And the three ingredients: powdered carbon, sulphur and saltpeter(potassium nitrate), were easily obtainable. In fact, both sulphur and saltpeter were included in the Gilbert's chemistry set my parents had given me for Christmas a year or so earlier.
I recall the first time I ground up a batch of this with a mortar and pestle. I packed some of it into a small, narrow-necked medicine bottle filched from my dad's supply of samples. Dad was a pharmaceutical salesman and had a great variety of medical sample bottles tucked away in a corner of the basement. I had selected a one-ounce bottle and emptied its contents down the drain, then carefully dried it out using a Kleenex tissue and a toothpick. After filling the bottle with my gunpowder using a small glass funnel, I inserted a length of Jetex fuse and secured it in the opening with tissue. I took my homemade 'firecracker' about thirty or forty yards into the field behind our house and planted it up to its neck in loose dirt. Then I lit the fuse and ran back into my yard. The result was both gratifying and scary.
There was a really loud "BOOM"! It was much louder than a firecracker! I ran back to the scene to discover a nice little crater blown into the soil. As I walked back into my yard I realized I had not picked a good day for my first experiment with gunpowder. It was a Sunday afternoon. Hardly anybody worked on a Sunday. Everybody was home... including my parents! This would have to be explained!
As I headed for the back door, my next door neighbor, Mary Klein, was standing on her back porch staring at me. "What in the world was THAT?!"
I mustered a lame shrug of my shoulders and an even lamer smile. "Oh.. heh, heh.. Just a little firecracker I made, Mrs. Klein." Mary glared at me for a second, then went back inside muttering to herself.
Coming into the living room of my house I was confronted by both parents looking at me with very critical expressions. After a few seconds of silence, my mom said, "Well?!"
Trying to sound cheerfully enthusiastic, I replied: "Oh.. Didja hear my firecracker?"
Dad was not amused. "Firecracker?!! That sounded more like a young BOMB!"
There followed a few minutes of stern lecturing about NOT conducting any more experiments with explosives anywhere near people or buildings. I meekly nodded my head and readily agreed. I was silently breathing a sigh of relief that they weren't shutting me down altogether. In retrospect, maybe they should have.
Other chemical combinations yielded different results. I soon learned that saltpeter mixed with either powdered magnesium (another item conveniently included in my chemistry set)or with sugar could be either a slower burning rocket fuel or an explosive; depending on the amounts of the oxidizer (saltpeter) mixed with the combustible (magnesium or sugar). In general, a higher amount of oxidizer would be explosive, but a lesser amount would make a slower burning rocket fuel. In the weeks and months that followed I made quite a few trips into the woods beyond the field behind our house to conduct 'experiments'. My little 'bottle bombs' shattered rocks, split open small saplings and blew the limbs off bigger trees.
On one occasion I came across a rotting tree trunk and wedged a bottle bomb tightly into a jagged slit in the trunk about two feet above ground. The blast blew away a lot of the pithy material at the top of the trunk, but also widened the split in the trunk down into the ground. I noticed a mouse crawling out of the split in a rather wobbly fashion... no doubt dazed by the blast. I placed a foot against the upper edge of the split trunk and discovered I could easily shove it over, breaking it free of its rotted roots. On doing so, I suddenly uncovered a whole nest of field mice which began scattering in blind panic. One of the confused little critters scrambled over my shoe and scampered up my pants leg! This induced a panicky "YIKES!" from me as I hastily brushed it off my waist. Mother Nature was striking back!
But by 1954 rocketry had overtaken explosives as a primary fascination. I was not satisfied with my dinky little Hobby Center Jetex engine which could only propel a model car or plane a hundred feet or so before sputtering out. I wanted to make my own rockets that would go much higher and much farther.
I came across the perfect material for my fledgling rocket bodies: half-inch zinc alloy water pipe. It was softer and more malleable than steel pipe; could be easily hacksawed into short lengths; and the ends could be pinched tightly shut in a vise. After pinching one end shut, I would fill the pipe with my slower-burning rocket fuel and then pinch the other end shut with a tiny brad nail stuck into the pinch to leave a tiny hole where a section of Jetex fuse could be inserted. Presto! One crude rocket ready for launching!
The launch site was my own back yard. The launch pad was as crude as my rockets. I used a larger diameter steel pipe about two feet long and propped up at a high angle tipped in the direction of the woods beyond the field next to our yard. Both the steel pipe and my rocket inside were carefully positioned so that the Jetex fuse would not get crushed against whatever I used for a base. Then.. a lit match to the fuse.. a few tense seconds watching the burning fuse disappear into the rocket.. and.. PFFFFTT!! The rocket was gone.
That was another big advantage rockets had over explosives. They were much quieter! Of course, not wanting to chance alarming anybody, most of my rocket launches took place after dark. Even my parents in the house couldn't hear them! They took off so fast you couldn't see them emerge from the steel pipe, but you could follow the burning exhaust for a second or two as it arced against the night sky before disappearing somewhere over the woods. Every launch gave me a thrill. But nothing like the one to come!
I had only launched a few of my pipe rockets when I naturally wanted to show off my 'expertise' to my buddy, Terry Vance. So on that fateful October evening at around 9:00 P.M. I brought him over to my garage 'lab' and set up my launch tube and loaded it with an 8-inch pre-filled pipe rocket in the back yard. The demonstration went beautifully. The rocket shot out of the tube like a bullet and we watched the streaking burn against the clear night sky until it quickly vanished. Sort of like spotting a falling star; only this one arced upward before winking out.
Terry was impressed. "Ya got any more?"
As luck would have it, I did happen to have one more previously prepared pipe rocket. I loaded that into my launch tube when I got a sudden inspiration. "Hey, Man.. I wanna try AIMING this one. Like a BAZOOKA!"
Terry looked at me a little apprehensively as I outlined my plan. "I'll hold the launch tube horizontally in my hands with the rocket laying flat inside. YOU light the fuse. Then just as it ignites, I'll tip the tube up a little so it shoots out at a much lower angle. That way maybe it will come down in the field before it gets lost in the woods!" I grinned excitedly at Terry. "Maybe we can retrieve it!"
I needn't have worried about retrieval. Terry shrugged his shoulders. "Okay, Man. If that's how you want to do it!"
I picked up the steel pipe 'launch tube' and held it horizontally with one hand while placing my last rocket inside one end with just the tail end and fuse sticking out. I had to be able to see the burning fuse go into the rocket. Then I nervously gripped the launch tube firmly with both hands.
"Okay, Terry. Light 'er up!"
Terry put a lit match to the fuse and my tension increased rapidly as the glowing burn neared the rocket's tail. Then the glow disappeared inside the rocket. Nervously, I jerked the launch tube up... a little too high and a little too quick. With horror I saw the rocket slide backward out of the tube and fall toward the ground. But just before it hit the ground, the fuel ignited. The rocket took off like a bullet at an acute upward angle... right between my legs!
My testicles went nova!
I experienced the most intense flash of my life; both visual and visceral. I was instantaneously transported into a realm of blindingly brilliant, excruciating pain. I'm not sure how long I remained in that demon dimension of agony; probably just a minute or two. When I gradually became aware of the earthly world around me, I could hear myself moaning and feel myself writhing in a fetal crouch on the grass.
Just then I also heard the sound of a window sash going up and an irritated voice barking: "What the hell's goin' on down there!"
My next older brother, Dick, occupied a 2nd story bedroom at the rear of the house with a window overlooking the back yard. At that time, he had a part-time job working for a local milk man which required him to get up very early in the morning to help with deliveries. So Dick was usually in bed by 9:00. Evidently my yelps and groans had awakened him.
Terry, who no doubt felt terribly helpless and embarassed by the whole situation, offerred up an awkward explanation. "Well, uhhh.. we were settin' off a rocket and, uhh.. it kinda took off wrong and, uhhh.. heh, heh. Well, you know it, uhh.. heh, heh, it hit him, ahhh, heh, heh. YOU KNOW.. in the..." Terry pointed at his crotch.
There was a pause as I slowly hauled myself up to a sitting position and ceased moaning.
Dick muttered something like, "What an idiot!" and slammed the window shut; presumably returning to bed.
As I shakily got to my feet, Terry spotted the spent rocket lying in the grass and picked it up. "Gee. It's still pretty hot!" He handed it to me. "You want it, Man?"
At that point I had very little interest in the rocket, but silently accepted it. Despite having been on the cool October ground for a few minutes, the little pipe was still quite warm.
Terry looked at me unconfortably. "You OK, Man?"
I nodded as the pain seemed to ebb away. "Yeah. I think I'll be all right."
"Well, I gotta get goin'." Terry was anxious to depart the awkward scene. "See ya tomorrow, Man".
I was just as glad to see him go. The shock of the rocket's impact had worn off, but was now being replaced by an unwelcome burning sensation. I went into the house and down to the basement to have a closer look. With more light on the subject, I was alarmed to discover that a little, round, half-inch hole had been neatly burned through the thick denim seam in the crotch of my jeans!
With rising trepidation, I unzipped my jeans and lowered them. I felt dizzy and nearly fainted when I gazed down and beheld the ugly blackened hole that had been burned into the crotch of my tidy whitey briefs. The edges of the burned cotten fabric were also tinged red from the scorched scrotum inside!
The enormity of this personal catastrophe overwhelmed any further desire for secrecy. I needed MOM!
I reluctantly went upstairs and haltingly told her what had happened. The reproach in her eyes was the only recrimination I had to face for the moment. Fortunately, Dad wasn't home at the time. When I showed her the "damage", her maternal imperative kicked in and she was only focused on taking care of her boy.
There followed a small comedy of medical misinformation. She called the local doctor at home (Yup, you could do that back in the 50s) to ask his advice on treating a burn from a chemically fueled rocket. He wanted to know what chemicals were involved. She asked me. Without thinking about it much, I replied, "saltpeter and sugar" and she relayed that onto the doctor. Then he wanted to know what part of the body had sustained the burn. She demurred a little. "Ahh.. a very sensitive area of the crotch!"
There was a lengthy pause from Doc. No doubt he was wondering how in the world I had managed to burn myself in the crotch with saltpeter and sugar! During the pause I finally started thinking. "Mom! I wasn't burnt by the chemicals. I was burnt by the hot metal pipe holding the chemicals!"
With that clarification, the medical advice was greatly simplified: "Sterilize the wound and pack it with unguentine and a sterile gauze... however best you can!" Simple instructions. Tricky to achieve.
Sterilizing the wound entailed another, albeit lesser, dose of pain: a splash of rubbing alcohol to the burned scrotum. In retrospect, I don't think any sterilizing was even needed. Hell! The hot rocket cauterized the wound as soon as it was inflicted!
Dressing the wound was the tricky, messy part. Unguentine salve was gooey, kinda stinky stuff and changing the dressing twice a day resulted in many a pulled pube. After the first, awkward dressing was applied by Mom, that little task became my own responsibility for the next couple of weeks.
The worst, lingering pain was entirely psycho-social. I had to be excused from attending gym classes for obvious reasons. But the excuse written by Mom for me to pass onto Coach Harold "Bud" Martin only stipulated: "..due to a severe burn."
When I presented the excuse to Coach Martin at my next gym class, of course, he wanted to know where the burn was. The other kids were doing warmup exercises and didn't seem to be paying any attention. I said, "Well, Coach, it's kind of embarrassing." Being a sensitive man, Coach Martin didn't say anything but began moving one palm to various parts of his body while looking at me questioningly. Palm to belly. I shook my head. Palm to hip. I shook my head. His eyebrows went up a little as he put his palm on his rear. I shook my head. Finally he moved his palm around to his crotch. I nodded.
The stunned look on his face was actually kind of comical. "How did you...?!"
"I'll tell you later, Coach!"
Despite this attempt at discretion, the word soon got out about my crotch burn. I endured a spell of joking and inuendo from my peers. One obnoxious upper classman in my gym class chose to interpret this as me having picked up a STD. For the next few weeks every time he saw me he took delight in asking: "You still got the syph, Sutherland?"
But, as with most non-lethal trauma, I learned that time heals and I recovered OK. Even from a case of grilled gonads.