Launching My Own Space Program

A child of the 1960’s I grew up in a house strongly influenced by the space race. My father worked for Chance Vought, later Vought Aerospace, Martin Marietta as a planning and production engineer. As a youth his work was all highly classified so we never knew what he did until years later but high attention was given in our home to all the news about space.
Now we were 1st generation from the farm and a bit precocious. As a Feril child, not a feral child as some suggested, we were rambunctious. Living in the country we tended to make up our own entertainment. Often this had to do with flying and outer space.
When I was 8 we lived next door to the Parkers in Colorado. One of the Parker girls was named Nita and she was 13. Nita was a real tomboy and played with us about everyday since we were the only children in the area.
Sometime that summer we began to experiment with “flight”. Our house was surrounded by elm trees and we could climb on and move through the branches all around the house on three sides. Finding a pair of old inner tubes we tied them to two trees in the yard and created the world’s largest slingshot. We selected large stones and would shoot them over the gravel road, over the ditch, across the barbed wire fence and into the plowed field across the road from us. This was relatively safe as the only two vehicles we ever saw on that road belong to my parents and the Parkers.
During the course of the summer we determined that my younger brother Steve might be able to be substituted for the stones. We recognized it would be important for him to clutch his knees and stay in a ball for the longest possible flight. Both Nita and I emphasized to him that to open his stance before he crossed the barbed wire fence might well result in his being unsuccessful.
Steve leaned into the inner tubes and began pushing backwards on it. Nita and I grabbed his waist and began to pull. Finally at full expansion Steve squatted to clutch his knees while Nita and I hung on tightly. The plan was to countdown from ten followed by the word “Blastoff”. Somehow Nita didn’t understand that we were to release him on “blastoff”. When we counted down to 1 I repositioned my feet and accidentally stepped on Steve’s foot. Nita released her hold, I was unable to hold him and he shot forward 4.5′ to 5′. Unfortunately Steve wasn’t that tall. I dislocated his ankle and ripped ligaments within it.
Now on reflection I can see I likely saved his life, but at the time Steve tended to blame me for his summer and fall spent on crutches. Since that time he has come around to my point of view.
We lived on the outskirts of town, not as my wife suggests on the outskirts of civilization. We fought, loved, tormented, and played with each other. Rougher than some, I hope not as rough as others (I’d hate to be the worst). None of us grew up to be astronauts, Steve couldn’t get in… bad ankle.  I grew up to be a minister and a therapist. I wonder if there is any connection here?