I was six years old when Apollo 17 landed on the moon, NASA’s final Apollo mission. The memory remains vivid, a black-and-white flicker on our television set, ghostly figures bounding across a distant world. I didn’t fully understand the magnitude of what I was seeing, but I knew it was important. The moon wasn’t just a bright circle in the night sky anymore—it was a place where people had gone. That single thought, impossible yet undeniable, planted a fascination that would stay with me for life.
That may be why I fell in love with tin-rocket ships. To a child, they were more than toys; they were passports to imagination. The one I painted for this piece has the classic retro design, the kind that was everywhere in the ’50s and ’60s. Pointed nose cone, bold fins, rivets pressed into shiny metal, often painted in primary colours that suggested speed and adventure. They didn’t need realism. They needed only to promise the possibility of flight, the dream of breaking away from Earth.
Hollywood, of course, stoked the fire. The B-grade space movies were full of rubber monsters and improbable rockets. Yet, they never failed to capture my imagination. By the time the ’70s rolled in, my universe was expanding further. Buck Rogers flashed across the screen, Star Wars exploded into cultural history, and Battlestar Galactica carried us to far-off galaxies. For a child of the space age, these weren’t just shows; they were invitations to escape, to believe that the future was limitless and the stars were waiting.
The 1970s were a freer, more reckless time. You could still buy firecrackers and skyrockets at Hings Green Grocers on Otaki’s Main Street. We had Double Happys, Thunderbolts, and all manner of small explosives that we eagerly dismantled to build makeshift rockets. Looking back, it was a dangerous kind of play, the type that would never be allowed now, but for us it was pure magic. You’d strike a match, hold your breath, and watch your creation roar into the sky—sometimes flying true, sometimes spinning wildly, but always thrilling.
One rocket stands out in my memory. It wasn’t homemade, but it was the most wondrous of all. A skyrocket that released a parachute upon explosion. I remember standing in the cool evening air, craning my neck as the parachute floated gently back down against the fading light. For a moment, it wasn’t just fireworks—it was spaceflight in miniature. That delicate drift back to Earth seemed as magical as any space capsule “splashing down”.
Now, when I look at the tin toy rocketships I’ve collected and painted, I see more than just metal and paint. I remember a time when imagination soared unchecked, when a child could watch people walk on the moon and then run outside to launch their version into the sky. They are symbols of hope, wonder, and the simple joy of believing that anything was possible.
And perhaps, in their way, they still are.
