The Old Man and the Rocketship

The Evening Ritual

In the gathering Ohio dusk, the sun had already dipped halfway below the red-clouded horizon, leaving behind a haze of heat like a lingering memory. It was October, and perhaps because it was so close to Halloween, the day had decided to "dress- pretend" as a summer afternoon rather than the deep autumn one it was. These things happen in Ohio now and then. The day had been T-shirt weather rather than flannel, and children in various homes in the town of Mount Vernon had pleaded with their parents to pull out the wading pools or, at least, the sprinklers. Air conditioners had been reactivated as white-collared adults hid in office buildings from the humidity and heat. Yet not far from the town, unperturbed by the haze, an old man shuffled down his drive from the farmhouse, drying dishwater-wet hands on his coveralls.

Behind him came the sharp clatter of porcelain and pots, cutting through the general huzz of insects, as Eddy, his wife, finished up dinner dishes in the kitchen. The drive led out to Ohio Interstate 71, and before the old man, just at the point where his drive intersected the main throughway, upon a ramp, aimed away from the house, over the interstate, and upward at a 45-degree angle, stood a rocket ship.

Moments later Eddy laid a steadying hand on a stacked set of dishes as the old wood frame house shook from the engine's ignition. Satisfied that the dishes were secure, she returned to her work, not even bothering to look out the window and see the yellow flame, brilliant in the evening dusk, shoot from the rocket's tail. As usual, the roar lasted about two minutes and then shut down, the turbines whirling slowly to a stop. A moment of silence and then the katydids and crickets tentatively began to sing their autumn song one more time before the frost silenced them for a year. From the interstate end of the driveway, the old man slowly returned, as he had for years, to his wife and home.