Posted on 05/30/2006 9:20:53 PM PDT by pickrell
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.
So why does Timmy seem to need regular doses of Ritalin?
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.
Where the hell do you think Marines come from, anyway?
*
Plastic models kick ass. 1/72 scale soldiers and vehicles are my favorites.
Many of my models ended up exploding from planted firecrackers in their tailpipes.
Nope. And ewhat is even worse, is that a company making micro radio tramsmitter kits for kids, HAMs and the Boy Scouts, (all leagal BTW) was raided, arrested, and all his stuff confiscated. - All in the name of wiretap and homeland security.
Go figure.
Never saw the show, but had the original hardcover book - until the wife "cleaned house" :(
That one's not mine...but I had the same . And it had the little flying mini, too. It, like all my models....specialized in aircraft carriers and battleships...went to the bottom. Fill 'em with kero; insert a butning wick in a convenient stack, and float 'em on the handy millpond.....bb gun. Very kool.
This is a good place to ask this question. Who here when you got tired of one of your models would put lighter fluid on it and set it on fire - faking a car crash or a shot down airplane? Come on it's safe here, you can tell. Mom's not reading this.
I think the only things I had that I didn't burn/blow up, were my GI Joes: indestructable.
Had a Funny Car crash once. The ARMY men raced in to rescue the driver and quell the flames. Fuel blevy...no survivors.
We can't be sure of that. She's still in her eighties, and wields a rolled up newspaper like the Fist Of God. Personally, I ain't fessin' up.
I appreciate that. Thanks for the thought.
Thank you for your service to the country.
Excellent article. The more protective we have become the more medicated our children become. Let them try and fail and swallow a few parts. I love the writing!
Thanks for posting this, although I built most of mine during the '70s and '80s, this post is spot on! I have dozens of unbuilt models around the house that I've been wanting to build, but so little time. I've been working on an M3 halftrack off and on for close to two years.
I'm saving your post for my son who has been bitten by the "magic in the box".
Cheers!
I saw a big-scale kit (1/10th? scale) of an ejection seat about 20 years back when I visited a hobby shop in Japan.
Now the Japanese models are high detail and I can't think of any decent American kits.
Squadron is still around - somewhere I still have two VERY old rubber powered kits bought with my allowance.
My neighborhood boasts a pretty real old style hobby shop,
big space for kids (and codgers) to build their models in and expert advice from the owner...seven days a week.
I drop in a couple times a month to buy or just to feel it some more.
I have a bright yellow (in this incarnation) '55 Bel Air; still not completed but painted so many times the door handles are tiny little mounds in the paint. It has a place of honor in my bookshelves.
From the paint job, I'd say it was from the USS America. Correct?
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