When my oldest son’s school science night drew near, the mental light bulb lit up like a Christmas tree. "I could demonstrate model rocketry to the kids!" It’s a hobby I have and share with my sons. But how to make it more cool and involve more than one kid who’d be the lucky one to push the button on a hand held controller? A launch board! I needed to construct a NASA control panel that went through a launch sequence just like in the movie ‘APOLLO 13.’ Ooooh!
Remember the scene where the Flight Director is calling for a "go" from each of his technicians? It went something like this, "Give me a ‘go’ ‘no go’ for launch…FIDO?"
"Go!"
"GNC," the Flight Director called.
"Go Flight!"
"EECOM," the FD asked.
"We are go flight."
He went down the list until the dramatic countdown began. In the same way, safety, sequence, and protocols are just some of the things I could teach these kids.
My design included paddle switches with green lights above for ‘go’ and red lights below for ‘no go.’ It would have a lighted ‘main power’ switch, an arming key switch— that’s for self preservation in the event a kid tried to hit the launch button while I was rigging for a launch. And it would have a red launch button, a built-in compass and wind gauge. The panel itself would be black within a battleship gray casing. Everything would be labeled.
The reality is that I have little more experience with electricity than installing a ceiling fan, or rigging a plastic model with miniature light bulbs powered by a pen-light battery (according to the kit instructions and using provided parts). My father was the electrical expert. He could repair anything electrical. He even designed and built a component for NASA that was used on the Mercury and Gemini spacecraft. But none of his expertise was ever imparted unto me. I never expressed any interest— until now.
Unfortunately I’m about ten years too late in being able to ask my father’s advice. And for reasons of personal pride I wasn’t about to ask my older brothers for input. So I relied on knowledge and know-how passed down through DNA. Yep…I winged it.
I made a parts list of what I wanted and, somehow, concluded that a 12-volt battery could power this thing. On my return from the electronics store, I spread everything out on a table. I marked the drill holes, measured side cuts and did the same on the casing. Thanks to my neighbor Charlie— a veritable craftsman who owns nearly every known tool— I ended up with a finely crafted wood console. That’s when the really fun part came: wiring the components.
On a Saturday afternoon, I sat in my garage. First I sampled a few parts— you know— hook ‘em up to the battery to see if the lights light. Yeah, they lit. Then came my main power switch. It too was lighted, but I had to connect wires to the switch terminals and then attach the wires to the battery terminals.
I stripped the insulation off the ends of two wires with my Dad’s old wire tool. I slid the leads into quick-connects and crimped them. Convinced Dad watched with pride, I attached the wires to the switch and then to the battery terminals.
Toasters work on the simple principle of heating up a metal element by running a positive charge to one side and a negative charge to the other. The hot element toasts your bread. I discovered this principle by attaching the wires from the switch to the battery. The positive charge in was no problem. My error was running negative to the power out.
I held the switch and turned it on and off. The switch never lit, but it grew warm and started to smoke. Actually the switch was melting. The logical solution was to cut the power. The wires were already too hot. In fact they also started to smoke. The insulation was burning off, exposing the red-hot cores of copper.
It’s surprising at just how much smoke two 8-inch lengths of 22-gauge, insulated wire can produce. It was so thick I could hardly see the light fixtures on the ceiling. I found my pliers, after sounding a few choice expletives, and pulled the wire from the battery. I imagined my Dad laughing hysterically. I would have laughed too, except the garage door opener came on and the door slowly lifted. There were only seconds to think.
Imagine a wife and mother comes home from running errands. She pulls into the driveway of her new house. Opening the garage door, she sees a billowing cloud of smoke.
My wife stepped out the car. Robert Shaw described her stare in JAWS: a cold-eyed glare just before you get bitten in half. I was praying she didn’t show her teeth. Why I don’t really know, but I grabbed the fire extinguisher and cut loose on the crispy copper remnants smoldering on the garage floor. I puffed out my chest like Kurt Russell in BACKDRAFT and said, "Got it! Quick thinkin’ huh, sweetie!"
She walked into the house without a word. The quiet was nice— for awhile. Though it didn’t last forever. Ultimately I replaced the molten switch and figured out how to read a multi-meter that checks if you are running current properly. The control panel is done and works like a charm. My sons think it is the coolest thing ever and that their dad is brilliant. Even my brothers are impressed. All the lights light and the switches and dials work. When you hit the launch button the rocket blasts off into low altitude.
And maybe, somewhere up there, he is feeling a touch of pride.
Copyright 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006 by David Falloure
