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I'm talking about a real rocket.

Every department in every section of a school has something festive going on at the end of the year. The Art Department has an art show, the Drama Club does the spring musical, the band has Pops Night, it goes on and on. You might think that the shop department (industrial arts) would be immune to this propensity, but they are not. Shop guys get worked up for their stuff too.

You can trust me on that.

I was walking back to my car after a delightful two-mile stroll RIGHT BY the shop department of our local high school, where the proud students, all guys of course, were hauling out the result of a year's design work on a rocket ship. It was impressive. Bigger than a breadbox but smaller than a Honda. It had a bit of a Rube Goldberg aspect to it, which should be no surprise. The instructor, who looked like one of the students, was telling them how various other years' efforts with the rocket had gone.

"Some years it goes out that way," he said.

The boys weren't listening.

"Then again some years it heads more toward the football field."

They were almost ready to launch.

"Make sure no one is down there," he said. The thing was aimed in the opposite direction of me so I wasn't worried. I wasn't even really listening until I heard a high pitched swooshy kind of sound. I thought of World War II movies and then

CRIED OUT IN FEAR as the rocket fell an inch from my nose.

There is no good time to walk at the track, it seems. Either there are teams practicing on the field or outer space paraphernalia are raining down in the parking lot.

In other news, my rhodies just started to bloom! This signals a generally happy era, going all the way back to when my local theatre group used to perform at Brandeis in the yearly competition. I still remember getting home when it was light out and seeing these very blossoms.

MORE TITLES

(not necessarily for any book)

Living the Dream (I'm rather partial to this one)

Wearing the Drapes

Croesus' Pieces

Dolores Bucks Up (I know, I know. It rhymes with Dolores F----s Up, but still)

Twenty More Minutes of Arguing

Twenty More Minutes of Pasta

Twenty More Minutes of Kissing

Happy Memorial Day, dear reader. May your rhodies bloom in happiness.

A bientot

love,

becky