On the Importance of Never Making it to Mars

Abstract

WHEN I was a child, my brother and I spent several weeks each summer visiting our cousin Mickey in Eastern Kentucky. He lived in Baptist Bottom, one of the narrow ribbons of flat land that separate the tightly clustered mountains in that area. One of our favorite adventures was blazing mountain trails. On our trailblazing days, we rolled out of bed early to pack our provisions of bologna, bread, and Kool-Aid. With the brown paper bags in tow, we began our climb. Winding around the steep mountainside, carefully avoiding sticker bushes and copperheads, we made our arduous way to the Elephant Rocks. Once there, we crawled inside an opening in the rocks to the spot where we started a small fire, placed our cast-iron skillet on the flames, and fried our bologna. On these expeditions, we often made plans to defend Baptist Bottom should the Nazis spring a surprise attack across the narrow wooden bridge that connected the Bottom to the rest of the world. Now should understand that the war had been over for many years, and, had it still been raging, it is hard to imagine what military advantage the Nazis might have sought in taking Baptist Bottom. Still, we were prepared. Houses in the Bottom were built on stilts to protect them from the annual floods. On hot summer days, the coolness created by the buffer of the house above us made the floor, as we called it, the perfect place to while away the hours. On one sweltering July day, it was under the floor that Aunt Leona taught me an important lesson. On this particular day, the boys were planning a trip to A year earlier, I might have been the main architect of such a plan. Being three years older, though, I had outgrown such foolishness. I had found a new role, one that built on certain of my natural talents. It was somewhat akin to playing Lucy to their Charlie Brown and Linus. Their Mars plans were quite clearly ridiculous, and I saw it as my responsibility to inform them of this fact. guys are crazy. You can't go to Mars in that thing. It's a bunch of crates. Crates can't hold up for a trip to Mars. I thought the science in that statement would help them see just how silly their plan was. They ignored me and continued planning. I returned to my diary, writing great thoughts about boys and Elvis and the injustice of my genetic link to two such simpletons. As they plotted, a big washtub became a central feature in their rocket design. The washtub, they decided, would hold the canisters of booster fuel (empty milk cartons and lard cans, as I recall) that would propel them through the galaxy. The only problem was that Aunt Leona kept the washtub filled with potted plants. Since they planned to blast off on that very day, the plants would have to go. Okay, I thought. This ought to be good. I knew Aunt Leona was not going to move all those geraniums on that hot day because these two fools wanted to explore space in a bunch of crates and a washtub. I watched with smug amusement as they tugged her into their workshop and enthusiastically explained their plan and her role in it. Aunt Leona and I had always been especially close. I knew I could count on her to straighten them out. Well, boys, she said in her lyrical mountain dialect, you let me know when you're ready, and I'll get those plants out of there right away. What? a voice inside my head screamed. Was I the only person not suffering from some kind of dementia? Assured the washtub would be ready when they needed it, the boys went back to work. A few hours later, Mickey and Tom decided to delay their Mars trip. They thought their time would be better spent planning to take over the world using two helicopters. Although I had been discouraged by Aunt Leona's defection, I couldn't let it pass. Two helicopters! I exclaimed. How can even two think could take over the world with only two helicopters? …