I’ve always believed that we humans are meant to impose our will on the environment around us. Not recklessly, of course—we’re not charging into hurricanes for fun—but deliberately, purposefully. We don’t let the weather dictate our plans; within reason, we decide what we do, and we do it regardless. That philosophy has guided much of my life, from professional challenges in aerospace to personal commitments. It’s a theme I try to instill in everyone around me, especially the young ones. And on a blustery, rainy Saturday in March, it became the backdrop for one of the most rewarding days I’ve had in years: launching model rockets with my youngest grandson.
He’s nine now, tall for his age, sharp as a tack, and already showing signs of a brilliant future. Science draws him like a magnet. Several years ago, when he was four or five, I bought him a model rocket kit. We planned to build it together, paint it, and send it skyward. But life intervenes—busy schedules, new babies in the family, vacations, the endless pull of obligations. The kit sat on a shelf, waiting for the right moment. I didn’t want to rush him; he was young, and forcing it might have dimmed the spark rather than kindled it.
That changed recently during a trip my wife and I took to the NASA area, touring facilities tied to Blue Origin and SpaceX. Walking those grounds, surrounded by reminders of the expanding space economy, I felt a renewed urgency. Time moves fast—kids grow up quicker than we realize. I started looking for souvenirs for all my grandchildren, little tokens to keep the wonder alive. For him, though, it wasn’t just a trinket. It was a reminder of that dusty rocket kit and his genuine love for anything related to space, engineering, and flight. I made a quiet commitment: we were going to do this before he outgrew it. No more delays.
We targeted a Saturday in March. The forecast called for warmth—comfortable enough to be outside—but also rain and wind. I didn’t care. We were launching, come what may. He’s science-inclined, curious about everything, and I wanted him to experience the real thing: not a sanitized, perfect day, but the messy, unpredictable reality of experimentation. That’s where true learning happens.
The day arrived, and the weather delivered exactly what it promised: gusty winds, low clouds, intermittent rain. We set up in an open field, far from power lines or crowds. First came assembly. We spread out the pieces on a table in the garage—cardboard tubes, fins, nose cones, parachutes, engines. He dove in with focus, following instructions but asking questions at every step. Why this glue here? How does the parachute deploy? What makes it stable in flight? We talked about center of gravity, drag, thrust, recovery systems. Basic rocketry principles, but taught hands-on, not from a textbook.
Model rocketry is more than a hobby; it’s an accessible gateway to STEM.[^1] Estes Rockets, the company behind most beginner kits, has been inspiring kids since the 1950s. These small, solid-fuel rockets reach hundreds or thousands of feet, then deploy parachutes for safe descent. They teach physics, aerodynamics, electronics (with simple igniters), and patience. For a nine-year-old, it’s magic wrapped in science.
We finished two rockets: a smaller one for easy flights, and a larger, more ambitious design. Painted, decorated, engines installed. Then, out to the field.
The first launch was tentative. We set up the pad, connected the electric igniter, counted down. Whoosh! It streaked upward, punching through the low clouds. But the wind caught it immediately. Instead of a graceful arc, it drifted fast and far. We lost sight in the gray. That became the theme of the day: rockets vanishing into clouds, then drifting on currents we couldn’t predict.
We adapted. He learned to estimate trajectories based on wind direction and speed. “Watch the flag,” I told him. “See how it’s blowing? That’s your drift vector.” We calculated rough landing zones, then hiked to search. One rocket came down over half a mile away—caught by a strong gust, parachute fully deployed, floating like Mary Poppins. It landed in a distant backyard. My wife and grandson trekked through yards, knocking on doors, retrieving it triumphantly. No surrender. We recovered it, muddy but intact.
The smaller rocket performed spectacularly—at least in ascent. It hit over 280 miles per hour from a standstill, a blistering acceleration that thrilled us both. But on descent, the cardboard body started unraveling under stress. We didn’t panic. We drove to Tractor Supply, bought glue, repaired it in the field, and used a heater to speed curing. A couple hours later, it flew again—fixed on the fly, better than before.
That’s the real lesson: troubleshooting. Life doesn’t go as planned. Igniters fail. Wind shifts. Rockets drift. You fix it, adapt, persist. We talked about cold fronts, cloud layers, condensation—why the sky looked the way it did, how dense air aloft held moisture, leading to our rain. Meteorology became part of the adventure. He absorbed it all, eyes wide.
His mother is a professional photographer; his dad experiments with content creation, traveling the world for a YouTube-style channel. He’s grown up watching high-end video production. YouTube is this generation’s Hollywood—kids dream of channels, subscribers, viral moments instead of rock stardom. He’s paid close attention: editing, cuts, narrative flow, dialogue.
Throughout the day, he filmed. Multiple angles—me prepping the pad, countdowns, launches, recoveries. He captured mishaps: the long drifts, the repair session, the triumphant finds. I noticed but didn’t interfere. I figured he was just playing around.
That evening, he went home and edited. A 15-minute video emerged—polished, narrated in his own voice, with cuts, transitions, music. It chronicled everything: building, launching, laughing at failures, celebrating recoveries. Sophisticated doesn’t begin to describe it. For a nine-year-old, it was remarkable. His parents’ influence showed, but this was his creation—his enthusiasm, his story.
I was floored. Not just proud (though grandparents are allowed that), but genuinely impressed. He turned a grandfather-grandson outing into a production. It had heart, humor, science. I’ll share it on it here to give it a wider audience—he deserves it. He’s not shy; he expresses himself openly. This glimpse into our family’s Saturday might inspire others.
The day wasn’t perfect. Rockets got lost (temporarily), weather fought us, plans shifted. But perfection isn’t the point. The mishaps were the gold: recovering a drifter, gluing a torn tube, predicting drift. Those build resilience. Intelligence, unfed, can wander into unproductive places. Hobbies like this channel it productively. Model rocketry feeds curiosity, teaches engineering basics, fosters grit.
In aerospace, where I’ve spent much of my career as an executive, we deal with unpredictability daily. Rockets don’t always fly straight. Missions face delays, anomalies. You troubleshoot, iterate, succeed. Sharing that with him—hands dirty, minds engaged—felt like passing a torch. He’s headed toward engineering, space, something impactful. My job is to show doors worth walking through.
We’ve only started. More launches ahead. He’s proud of his “trophies”—the rockets on his shelf, reminders of the adventure. When things go wrong, he doesn’t panic. He fights through. That’s a lifetime gift.
If you’re busy, schedules packed, kids growing fast—make the time. Block it out. The weather might not cooperate, but impose your will. The rewards—light in young eyes, skills cascading forward—are worth every gusty, rainy minute.
[^1]: Estes Rockets official site and National Association of Rocketry resources highlight educational benefits; see generally model rocketry as a STEM tool.
[^2]: Personal observation; no specific external citation needed for family anecdotes.
Rich Hoffman
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About the Author: Rich Hoffman
Rich Hoffman is an independent writer, philosopher, political advisor, and strategist based in the Cincinnati/Middletown, Ohio area. Born in Hamilton, Ohio, he has worked professionally since age 12 in various roles, from manual labor to high-level executive positions in aerospace and related industries. Known as “The Tax-killer” for his activism against tax increases, Hoffman has authored books including The Symposium of Justice, The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business, and Tail of the Dragon, often exploring themes of freedom, individual will, and societal structures through a lens influenced by philosophy (e.g., Nietzschean overman concepts) and current events.
He publishes the blog The Overmanwarrior (overmanwarrior.wordpress.com), where he shares insights on politics, culture, history, and personal stories. Active on X as @overmanwarrior, Instagram, and YouTube, Hoffman frequently discusses space exploration, family values, and human potential. An avid fast-draw artist and family man, he emphasizes passing practical skills and intellectual curiosity to younger generations.
The Overmanwarrior 