Strong Coffee: rockets and soapbubbles

I was thinking of rockets and soapbubbles.
As a kid, that's all I ever thought about. They went together in my head. Soapbubbles were like planets, all iridescent and lighter-than-air. Until they were nearly out of sight and collapsing in on themselves in a whiff of ancient water, or else they were crashing into an oak leaf.

I kept the Estes rocket catalog under my pillow right next to my rosary beads. It was as coveted and as sacred as the annual Sears Wish Book that I got my electric guitar from one Christmas.

It hardly mattered that I was the only girl in Rocket Club in the 7th grade. That I was an ugly four-eyed little tomboyish geek prime for peer harrassment. The Estes rocket catalog made it all go away-- like I was riding a soapbubble right outta town.

Here I was at the hobby shop picking up an Estes rocket catalog for the first time in 25 years--somewhere in Minnesota. 25 years ago I would have told myself I was a lunatic if I thought I'd ever be in Minnesota. "Maybe Morrocco, but not Minnesota," is what 14 year-old-me would have said to 40 year-old-me. "What's in Morocco?" my 40-year old asks.
"They have buried treasure there and Ingrid Bergman and food that smells sweet and spicy," my 14-year-old responds.
Ah, yes, Ingrid Bergman. Good reason to go to Morocco. Grab the next rocket out, I say.

The new 2004 Estes rocket catalog was destined for my niece. "Say a rosary for her genetic milieu," I say to myself. She was 10. She suddenly was struck with the desire to fly kites. And build a rocket. Kids who fly kites-----eh, whatever. Whatever. But, kids who want to build rockets---- now there's chaos theory, fractal geometry of genetics, or just stubborn dreaminess that will, no doubt, lead her into procrastination and dizziness. Amen. "...pray for us sinners." I could almost feel the alabaster beads in my fingers.