Scale models..

The box contained magic. Oh, it didn't say that; rather, it said things like,"1/32nd Scale", "A Revell Kit", and had words like "Flying Fortress" emblazoned fearlessly across the top. Pictures of dreadful and desparate combat over Berlin warned the faint of heart that they were passing through friendly lines, across the no-man's land of imagination, and entering into ... the Free-flight Zone.

Believe me- the box contained magic. Lovingly peeling off the cellophane, my friends and I paused to savor the treasures within. We were seldom disappointed. Inside were hundreds of pre-formed plastic parts, which, under the tender ministrations of us 11 year old airframe and powerplant experts would soon come together into a frightful projection of unstoppable airpower, sure to stave off the Nazis, in time for a lunch of Spaghetti-O's.

This is because we were underpriveleged youth of the 1960's. Unlike today's upper-middle class boys, who open birthday gifts of preassembled plastic toys designed to prevent unnecessary, tragic, and gender-biased martial tendencies from developing, we delinquents were shamefully allowed to lust after war-birds.

Born of unnurturing parents, those of us lucky enough snared kits consisting of hundreds of parts, some quite small enough to swallow, or poke into our eyes... were we bone-stupid enough to do so. For the truly indigent, even a mere 19 cents would purchase a 1/64th scale plane of nearly 80 parts! The world was our unprotected oyster!

A tube of airplane glue- the tendons and connective tissue of the polystyrene world- would solemnly be produced by one of the gang as his contribution to the war effort. And the symphony would begin. Sages among us would educate the neophytes about keeping the glue from getting smeared onto the outside. As parts were skillfully detached from the plastic frame, we declaimed upon the secrets of assembly. The diagram provided by the manufacturer- (obviously for wussies far less skilled than us)- was disdainfully cast aside, as theories were propounded about what each part did... or could be made to do.

It never occurred to us that the tube of glue formed a ticking time bomb waiting to lure us into the lurid world of reefer-madness.

We would have snorted at the need for drugs- we were in the land of imagination. Parts fit into other parts, certain of them necessarily cemented forever into a fixed position, while the Committee for the Freely Turning Propellor presented it's final recommendations. Several of the props were too-liberally glued to the little spindle jobbies, as they passed through the cowling bearings; the extraneous glue serving as a mute and eternal testimony of left-wing rotational failure. Our self esteem was hammer by flak, but didn't shatter as we simply redoubled our care on the right wing.

The masterpiece emerged as the ideal bomber, suitable for flying in counterclockwise circles to throw off the cursed Nip fighters. (We were mechanics, not geographers...)

Over the summer, the idea that things were made up of smaller things, and that each part had it's necessary and vital function to perform for the overall good of the whole, seeped into our understanding of The Way Things Worked. It became obvious that Things Worked... only when sufficient care and sufficient talent went into their assembly. Thought had previously occurred by those mysterious craftsmen who designed these marvelous models in the first place. Obviously demi-gods of engineering.

The consensus agreed that, with a serious enough study of parts- a serious enough guy could probably learn how anything worked! Heady stuff.

As we talked, we propped up each other's morale, knowing that the fight against communism, floridation of our water, and other formidable challenges lay ahead. We spoke of fathers and uncles, real (and in a few cases imagined), who were "seldom owed so much, by so many... and collected it so few times". We may have got a lot of it wrong, but the idea that men actually flew in these things, you know, like, for real, daring death and dismemberment to stand against monsters... caused each of us to think. And then to think some more.

What would we have to do, when we grew up, ... to earn our place in their eyes? It was a time when you believed that all of those women, and many men also, back here at home worked feverishly to rivet and solder, to paint and test, the best weapons we could give those tall men. The occasional dirty Nazi spy was soon outed, and the G-Men took him out.

It was back when heroes were supported. It was back before disillusionment crushed us. A time of honor, when fathers were revered, and tragically, sometimes lost.

Today, a child is protected from the agonized inability to assemble his toys from parts. Esteem is as carefully monitored as the verboten choking hazard. Liberal eyes would roll in their heads at the very thought of a loaded tube of glue without a child-proof safety catch. Plastic army men were permanently and utterly routed from the field by the non-judgemental, indeterminantly-sexual, plastic play characters of today. They are certified free of environmental contaminants like testosterone, thank heavens.

So as not to provoke excruciating puzzlement, the imagination-stimulating 'Mr. Teacher Play Toy, (suitable for all ages)", is packaged in cellophane to facilitate close inspection by parent-advocacy groups. This guards against painful, psyche-debilitating surprise on the part of Timmy.

Tell you what. Let's try putting the magic back in Timmy's life. Let's lead him to the precipice of assembly-required failure, and the tragic lessons learned therefrom at his tender age. As proof of our inspired viciousness, let's introduce him to the world of cause and effect, of the understanding that bigs things are influenced by little things and that he CAN understand why things work.

In a final act of barbarity, let's allow him to imagine himself the kind of boy that risks it all, to protect the folks back home. He can use the now painfully hazardous, old-fashioned safety pin to fasten on the towel-of-great-powers, and fly to the rescue of, (brace yourself- here it comes-), helpless damsels of the female girlness, sort of thing.

Let's throw caution to the winds, put the magic back into his life... and just risk it.

"Oh, well I built the Bismark and had it in the bath tub, set it on fire, way to cool.."

That brings back memories. The Yorktown with gasoline and firecrackers down in the near by creek. We had to use silicone to make it watertight though. The model glue would disintegrate and the boat would sink before the fire and explosions would get to it if you didn't. Was was even better is when we got our hands on M-80's (the real things not fakes).

...if I can only get off of my lazy butt and put the skull and crossbones on her!

Ahhh! So that's why it's missing. I knew something wasn't right but the rest of the paint job looks perfect.

I built one just like it a couple years back. The only difference is the radome is a yellow tan color.
I'm particularly proud of the details I put on the CRT green screen in the cockpit with a brush with one bristle on it.

"Now the Japanese models are high detail and I can't think of any decent American kits."

The Monogram ProModeler series is quite good. Accurate Miniatures makes kits that are the equal of any kit from Hasegawa or Tamiya. On the other hand, you are quite correct that the average model from Japan sets high standards.

"...At a first-grade Christmas party, we all got to pick a present from under a teeny tree. Mine was a BAe Electric Lightning fighter. Lacking glue, I assembled the whole thing that night in bed with rubber bands by flashlight. Decals and all. From that event forward, I had one sole purpose. I got my Navy wings in '89. In the interim I built whole air forces..."

You did more than build whole air forces. You, and men like you, helped to build a whole culture. We salute you for your service to the country, sir.

"...I've always been a big fan of scale modeling, and especially box art, but it's been years since I've built one..."

Some of our best memories are from when most of us built models. It was a time when our own imaginations entertained us.

It would be nice to return to those days, but I think that sometimes we may forget that it wasn't the plastic models themselves, but rather the flights of magic and imagination they spurred in us all.

The man who will eclipse Bill Gates... is the man who finds a way to unleash in all of us who treasured those days in our youth... the same magic, the same pristine power of imagination. That wondrous world of discovery is still out there, but it needs a new venue. Because you can't just buy a ticket to fly there, and it isn't marketed in aerosol cans.

Someone... is going to get very rich when he discovers/invents/unleashes it! Thanks for the reply.

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