At Random

Model Behavior

Growing up in the 1950's, shortly after the winning of World War II, I was surrounded by a generation of veterans (Tom Brokaw's "greatest generation") who vividly remembered their service overseas. Although, as a rule, those who had seen the most horrific action were the most reluctant to speak about it, they were invariably willing to speak about the warships they'd sailed and the fighter planes they'd flown.

Thus, all the kids I knew were "into" model-building, and every stationary and cigar store was packed with all kinds of model planes, from the dime models, which, resembling no particular plane, were mostly propelled by a thick rubber band that you twisted until it was tight and then released the plane and hoped for the best as it headed for the nearest tree; to the 85-cent Monogram models that were also propellor-driven balsa but were carefully modeled after the original F 4U Corsair, Mustang, Hellcat, and Spitfire. These were my favorite, and the ones I could most easily afford with my allowance.

In those days, the most demanding models required you to construct a fuselage out of long, thin sticks of balsa wood that you stuck together, according to the instructions, with Dupont's Duco Cement, in a small tube, which, if sniffed too hard, would give you a terrific headache (this was before the day of label warnings). When I was ten years old, one of my father's Texas friends came to visit, bringing with him a balsa model of a "Flying Fortress." Early in the evening, they must have agreed I was too young to construct such a model, so late that night-after a drink or two? -- they descended into the basement and spread the whole box out on my father's workbench. When I woke up the next morning and went down, there was an intricate fuselage and one wing. They hadn't given themselves enough time to complete it. That plane never did get completed. I thought it was a hell of a gift-a little like a cake with the icing licked off.

If you bought the Monogram models, the fuselage was a solid block of balsa wood, to which you simply glued the wings, tail, cockpit, and cowling (pilot optional). I spent a lot of time on these models-my mother accused me of squirreling myself away up in my bedroom and not emerging until the plane was complete. My friend Jimmy MacLaine, whose father was a captain in the Navy, was a model maniac. He would, his mother Betty told me, buy a plane, go to his room with a couple of packs of Fig Newtons and a case of Coke, and lock himself in until he'd finished the model-whether that was two hours or two days. He made all kinds of models. He made the same kind of 1/54-inch scale models that I built, but he also constructed gas engine- propelled models which didn't interest me at all. They didn't resemble any particular plane, and I wanted mine to be true-to-form. My aim was not simply to build these planes; what I wanted was to assemble them as flawlessly and neatly as possible. And so I didn't fly any of them; I stuck a staple into the fuselage and hung them from the ceiling in my bedroom. In summer, with the window open, my ceiling was alive with American fighter planes.

I constructed one model plane after another -- building a warship from time to time, just to break the monotony -- so it was no surprise when my bedroom ceiling had no more room. And, from time to time, I chose a plane from my squadron (maybe one that didn't please me as much as the others), opened my bedroom window, set fire to it, and sent it sailing down into the back yard.

My bedroom was getting crowded.

That's why I was pleased with the advent of the all- plastic, 1/72 scale models. They were exquisitely detailed and they were small, very small (a typical wingspan was eight inches), as well as being very cheap ( the last model I built cost $2.98). The only problem with these tiny models was that I was getting older and my eyesight wasn't getting better. They required you to get your face down very close to the plane you were working on-pushing your nose down onto the wing, for example. And what with the fumes of the Duco Cement and the Testor's airplane paint, you could be flying high if you weren't careful. But the advantages far outweighed the disadvantages: I could easily fit twenty such planes on the top of a bookcase that would accommodate only five of the bigger ones. Not too long ago, I went into a local stationary store to look for some models, and could find only one all-plastic ship model with parts that "clicked into place." No cement, no paint. I assume it was a model that parents could approve of. Other such stores carried no models at all.

What happened to model planes? Have computers gobbled up the model audience? I know kids aren't outdoors riding bikes. Today's kids don't, as a rule, ride bikes. It's one of the phenomena that make me feel old. I'm just glad I got in under the wire.