Historical May 1993 article. Dates, prices, services and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
Like any other red-blooded youth growing up in post-WWII, post-Korean War middle America, I collected tiny model airplanes and warships.
These were plastic ones, probably four to fourteen inches long, that I assembled.
A model kit would consist of 40 or 50 tiny gray plastic parts and a sheet with some military decals.
The planes were never as easy to put together as the directions would indicate, and never as exciting looking as the drawings on the covers would promise. (As I’ve aged, the kinds of models have changed, but the lessons I learned about ease of assembly and excitement not being what was promised remain the same.) I had a window in my bedroom that served as a kind of launching-pad for the more sturdy plastic planes.
For a few brief seconds, they actually flew!
The window-sill in my bedroom was actually rubbed raw, the paint had van- . ished, from so much wear.
But creating the miniature models was only part of the fun.
I would periodically take the ships and planes to the back yard, carefully position then in some pretend military array, and set them afire, creating my own real live battle scene.
A little lighter fluid, squirted strategically on the plastic, would do wonders for creating relatively giant-sized flames and bellows of gray, rancid smoke. And then the challenge began: my job was to move the air and seacraft in their deadly dance of war, with flames springing from the wings and decks, being sure never to singe my fingers of course, and make all of the sound effects for the battle. KA- POW! ZOOOOOOOOOOOOM! RAT-A- TAT-TAT! KaBLOOM! DIT-DIT-DIT! And so on.
I got really good at recreating the sound that a fighter plane would make after it was hit by gunfire, as it spiraled towards the ocean floor (also known as my back yard). Once I tried taking photos of the battle scene, but it didn’t turn out too well.
The photos looked like a bunch of notterribly-well-assembled plastic models of ships sitting in a back yard in South St. Louis. Needless to say, creating the Battle of the Coral Sea in the backyard wasn’t exactly sanctioned by the Supreme General of the Marine Avenue Allied Forces, also known as my mom.
She objected to this practice on any number of grounds: safety, it smelled bad. safety, why burn these models that you worked so hard to build? safety, and what would the neighbors think? And, of course, being the dutiful son, after hearing this lecture, standing at attention if memory serves me, I agreed not to do it anymore.
I promised to wage peace not war with my war models. And that’s what I did. Until I was home alone. Periodically I would accumulate enough new planes and ships so that a giant battle would take place once mom was gone.
After all, if I didn’t fight for democracy in my back yard, who would?
It never occurred to mom to ask why I kept buying and building more models, but somehow their number never expanded beyond the shelves in my bedroom. Fortunately, her schedule was pretty predictable, so I could have the destroyed planes and ships removed, and the whiffs of smoke gone, by the time she arrived home.
But alas, not unlike the real generals and admirals, I found out the hard way that plans are never perfect.
I remember one particular time when mom came home early, stepped into the back yard and caught me.
It was a scene to give any mother a headache!
She saw eight or ten plastic models with flames and smoke spewing everywhere, and me amidst them doing the complete audio for the battle.
She did a double-take and in her best caustic tone asked, “What in the world do you think that you’re doing?” “Be with you in a minute,” I responded, moving the P-38 over the carder so that it could drop its bombs, “this is a turning point in the battle.” In all of my youthful foolishness, several decades really, that simple retort may have been the worst single instance of judgment on my part. (It at least rivals the stupidity I displayed in putting the lit firecrackers into the mailbox at Susie’s house.) Mom never was much for grand naval or air strategy, her idea of war was going downtown for a sale, so she never understood my attitude about not wanting to explain what I was doing in the middle of the battle.
As a result of her attitude about my attitude, I found that even Churchill-like generals and admirals aren’t too old for a spanking.
I learned my lesson and never did it again. Until the next time.
As I reflect on all of this, I am smart enough to know that there’s a message or a moral here. I’m absolutely sure of it. Unfortunately, I’m not quite sure what it is. “Don’t burn your models”? “Always listen to mother!”? “Make love, not war”? or maybe “No Battle Is Complete Without Sound Effects”?
But right now I don’t have time to figure this one out, I’ve got a P-38 to assemble; there’s a bedroom window sill awaiting!
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, May 1993.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times1993_05.pdf, printed page(s) 8; PDF page(s) 7.
