Rocket Therapy

It's better than the alternative.

Good morning, friends! I have been so busy making my niece’s wedding dress, that I found myself extremely behind on practically everything else. So, sweet man that he is, my husband agreed to write a guest post for me. I have hinted here and there, about the toll politics took on Jonathon and me, with promises to write about it later. But this is much better, hearing about it straight from Jonathon’s mouth. You’d thing being a Republican in the Republican-dominated state of South Carolina would be the easiest thing in the world. And it is…for a certain kind of Republican. Jonathon has never been that sort. In short, the Republican establishment here put Jonathon through the proverbial meat grinder. Nevertheless, he has not only survived but managed to thrive. Now you’re going to find out how. I hope you enjoy…

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Rocket Therapy

I was taught good manners by my parents. But years of political service very nearly had me swearing two years ago.

It was my final year in office‚ year eight as a state representative in South Carolina. Many politicians make it seem so easy. They run, nobody runs against them, they show up, they don’t work hard. At the capitol at least, people seem to love them. They’re definitely the “in” crowd, the cool kids.

That was never me. I actually read the bills that I voted on. I never co-sponsored or voted for bills that I hadn’t read. That alone was enough to make me an enigma in the state house. Years of writing code as a software developer had my attention to detail and logic skills honed so fine that in one two-month stretch I caught no less than 6 major errors in bills that staff attorneys had written. It earned me the nickname “eminent proofreader” from our reading clerk, “Bubba” Cromer.

But I couldn’t leave it at that, the glutton for punishment that I am.

No, I had to take a PRINCIPLED and PUBLIC stand on EVERY bill and vote that came up, frequently angering the other representatives. It wasn’t uncommon for me to be alone in the opposition. The vote would be called, “118 ayes, 1 nay, the ayes have it,” to the sound of snickers all over the House chamber.

My colleagues quickly learned that if I was around, there was no such thing as unanimous consent. It just wasn’t going to happen. It got me another nickname: “renowned objector.”

My biggest regret was that I couldn’t stop every bad thing from happening. I had to settle for exposing every bad thing.

Turns out, politicians really don’t want the voters knowing the truth about what they do in the capitol. But I figured that was the job—as long as “Representative” was my title, that I would represent the best interests of the people of South Carolina—not the politicians under the dome. I adopted “orphan” constituents statewide, whose representatives wanted nothing to do with them. I inspired, recruited, and helped many people get involved or run for office for the first time.

Our state Republican Party chairman called me “some kind of legislative vigilante.” My committee chairman (a Democrat) called me “the worst piece of crap legislator he’d ever worked with.”

I found myself busier with each passing year. The minority leader had warned my first year: “if this job doesn’t run you off your feet, you aren’t doing the job.” That was true. I got run off my feet. He is still there to this day. I guess he isn’t doing the job? Go figure!

I eventually gained some allies. Instead of being the lone dissenter, anywhere from five to forty-five of us dissented. But getting there took a toll on this introvert who never really wanted to be there to start with.

By the time my seventh year in office came around, I could feel something inside of me breaking.

It can be hard for men to talk about how they feel. I struggled to comprehend and describe to my wife Amanda how I felt. Sometimes, it’s (still) like a hot poker, jabbing into your body over and over again. At other times, it’s like a bad drug which you take, knowing it’s gonna make you sick, but you do it anyway, because not taking it will be even worse. Such was my state of mind during 2021, while I agonized whether I was going to re-up for another two years.

There was no doubt in my mind that I could win re-election, even though each election seemed to bring greater state-wide attention and opposition from the establishment. I’d won my first election with 57% of the vote, and despite an unprecedented barrage of attacks and all the political weirdness of 2020, I’d still won re-election with 63% of the vote. It was a mandate, and my high water mark. Part of me wanted to soldier on and show that it’s possible to do the right thing in office, and survive—for a long time.

But then that searing inner anguish would yank me back to reality as I yet again set foot in the state capitol building for yet another three-day week of the legislative session, to look my enemies in the eye, and not blink.

Whether I wanted to go for another two years was ultimately irrelevant. I just couldn’t. It was really clear to me that Amanda was just as done as I was. So it was decided. Reality can be hard to face, but once faced, the decision pretty much made itself.

I remember Christmas of 2021 as an especially pleasant time. We had family over from out of state. Amanda somehow got the idea to give me a model rocket set as a gift. Maybe it was the wistful look in my eye reminiscing of my childhood, long before politics came into my life and took over.

It had been decades since I’d had a hobby. Something about the fact that it was a holiday had me feeling free to completely forget about the world around me, work with my hands, and use a long-neglected side of my brain. I built, and rediscovered a piece of myself long forgotten. It was exhilarating. I was stunned at how ecstatic that first launch left me feeling.

There were two rockets in that set, and they quickly made babies.

I was born again—what old timers in the hobby call a “BAR” (Born Again Rocketeer).

It was the calm before the worst year of my life: 2022.

The year started with a grueling schedule of teaching political activism classes four out of the first six weeks of the year, on top of the three days a week I’d spend in the state legislative session.

Then, since I no longer had to live in District 8, Amanda and I decided it was time to move. We found a place, put down earnest money, and on Valentine’s Day I very nearly burned down our house—the one we were trying to sell. Then, we discovered serious mold and water damage which I had to scramble to fix just days before our buyer closed on it… so that we could close on our new place.

It was right about that time that certain politicians with an axe to grind against me executed a carefully-timed ambush which was meant to bump me out of office: allegations of 139 violations of the state ethics law relating to my campaign bank account. Exhibit A: an audit of my account which I requested to clear up some accounting errors from that 2020 re-election race.

Little did they know that I’d already decided not to run. I was innocent, but when your political enemies are the very individuals responsible for enforcing the ethics law, and this panel of attorney-legislators play prosecutor, judge, jury, AND executioner, well, there’s not much you can do except settle as quickly and as cheaply as possible. Which I did. But not before I was forced to pull an all-nighter or two wading through reams of documentation, assembling an 80-something-page defense, which the ethics committee never once even bothered to read. The fix was in for me from the get-go. It didn’t matter what I said.

This was the climax, and it seemed an intolerable cruelty. I was furious, I was unfit company to be around. I was ready to let loose a hair-curling string of expletives at the politicians responsible for this mockery of ethics.

And so, I built a rocket.

And then I flew a plane.

Or tried, rather. I nearly took out a pedestrian at a park in Columbia. So I moved to a soccer field, and promptly flew the large styrofoam airplane through a pine tree. That didn’t go well.

Alone and sad, I returned home.

Through it all, I was determined to end well and strong politically, even while I felt myself crumbling inside.

Dear friends from church helped us fix up our house that we moved out of, helped us move, and let us stay with them for a couple months during this period of time.

Churches—and pastors, especially, who fear God more than man—were a tremendous encouragement to me. My pastor and mentor, Mike Thomas, yes, but also others, including Pastor Swann in Columbia. They may never know quite how much they, and their churches, soothed my soul.

Truly, there is a balm in Gilead.

I’m so thankful that God carried me through these experiences.

The legislative session ended early May as it always does, and the same week, my ethics case was settled. I still remember the drive home. I couldn’t get out of our state capitol city fast enough.

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Quick note from Amanda: The ethics case being “settled” resulted in a 12,000 dollar fine to be paid to the so-called “House Ethics Committee” (a more ridiculous contradiction in terms I’ve never heard) at the rate of 500 per month, which we are nearly done paying.

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Things finally began to shift gears. I rested. It was forced on me by a case of norovirus, or some such. After I got done puking my guts out, I built some more rockets.

The final weekend of May, I had a chance to attend an organized launch for the first time in my life.

The National Sport Launch is a major annual event, and in 2022, it came to South Carolina. What a thrill that was, to experience the hobby of at a whole new level!

That’s no fake grin!

Model rocket motors have letter designations that indicate how powerful they are. “B” is twice as powerful as “A.” At Hobby Lobby, you can find “A” through “D” motors (sometimes “E” motors too) on the shelf.

But they don’t stop there. You can buy commercial “F” and “G” motors. And still more—but for safety reasons, owning and flying bigger rocket motors require special training and certification.

…which I did. At NSL 2022, my first organized launch, I earned my Level I certification, which let me fly “H” and “I” motors. And before the year was out, I earned my Level II certification, which lets me fly up to an “L” motor. This year, I’ll get my Level III certification, and the sky will literally be my limit.

My full-scale reproduction “Miss Riley” rocket (from the movie October Skies) going up on an I366 motor.

There’s something about old guys: they like to help us younger guys out. At this level, the hobby gets expensive fast. So I’m thankful for old guys getting out of the hobby. I found several of them over the past two years and bought their stuff for pennies on the dollar.

What happened next was unexpected.

The site of the national sport launch was a sod farm just outside of Sumter, SC. It’s big, it’s flat, and the grass is short. It really is the ideal location and makes the three hour drive kind of worth it.

I found myself going back again, and again, and again. I became a regular attendee there. First, because I hate losing rockets to trees, power lines, and buildings. But later, for the people.

At a time when I didn’t think that I wanted to have much to do with people, I found that I’d really come to like THESE people. They aren’t like the people in the legislature. They are real people, good people, and in many cases, even God-fearing conservatives.

Some of my new friends are really old guys, legends in the hobby.

Johnny Hartman, left, is the local hybrid motor expert. Leo Nutz, right, makes an annual trip from Germany to fly with us in SC.

Tom Binford showing me his unusual rack rocket. It went out of sight and nearly out of sound, too.

I count it a privilege to know these old guys. I hope they stick around, but I won’t take any launch with them for granted. And I hope that one day, I will be as good to some young person as they have been to me.

In keeping with Amanda’s theme last week, you never know what might come of these skills, experiences, and contacts, even the ones that seem to be mundane.

This year I turned this hobby of mine into a side hustle, in keeping with a life-long goal of developing diverse sources of income around things that I enjoy, that I’m good at, and that people will pay for. I started up New Century Rocketry. Seeing this, one of my new friends at the range introduced me to an old rocket motor dealer who sold me his entire stock of inventory for a price I couldn’t refuse. Once again, I find myself indebted to old guys getting out of the hobby.

And then, you know, who knows what else we might need these skills for, one day… the rest I won’t say out loud, but you know!

Amanda doesn’t fuss at me when my rocket projects spill out all over the place. She doesn’t complain or begrudge me the time that I’ve spent building and flying. She’s a nice person. And she knows how much it means to me.

As my time in office recedes slowly with each passing year, I look back with great satisfaction that I did the right thing, didn’t compromise, and left on my own terms. I look out with greater satisfaction that my efforts are producing ongoing results, even today. Some of my colleagues are still afraid of me, and there are now many more in the legislature like me. I’m nobody, I’m gone, but I’m still living rent-free in the heads of the most powerful people in South Carolina.

They must be even more broken than me.

I’d love to show them how to build and launch a rocket—if they would leave office, and never come back!

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Jonathon has his own Substack newsletter where he publishes all the bad bills South Carolina politicians try to pass during the legislative session. (Yes, he still reads ALL the bills, even though he’s out of office.) Go subscribe, especially if you live in South Carolina. It might save you a tax hike one day.