Once there, my mother and I would often sit by the old runway, for instance, watching as my father, with the two boys beside him, wound up the propeller of his latest model, lit the fuse at the tail end, so that the plane could continue flying once it was launched. We were excited to see the aircraft rise majestically, floating on the air currents above us, flying perfectly through the clear blue skies. It was almost magical! However, all too often, we would watch, crestfallen, as my father’s beloved model disappeared, at some distance away, either plummeting, or even gliding gracefully, into the 6ft. tall grass everywhere around us in which it buried itself.
“Take a line on it!” my father would yell, followed by, “Susan! John! Peter! Take a line on it… now…… before it’s too late. Don’t lose sight of it!” So, we did our very best to work out exactly where the plane had gone down.….between this tree and that one… slightly to the left, near that huge anthill in the distance…wherever. Then, using this information and with his eyes glued to the supposed disaster site ahead of him, off went my father, often taking John with him, whilst my mother, Peter and I would wait patiently. I didn’t like trudging through that long grass which could harbour snakes and wild animals, and Peter was too young to go. After some time, we saw the two menfolk, sometimes emerging triumphantly from the bush, clutching the downed aircraft, so happy to have found it. Most of the time, however, we watched my father and John dejected and disappointed, returning empty-handed. 6ft or more of balsawood and tissue paper wasn’t the easiest of things to spot in that long grass.
I thought that the whole exercise was a waste of time. All those hours of intricate work, only to lose the finished article on its maiden flight or soon afterwards. I disliked the planes for another reason, as well. I hated having the largest wingspan pinned to my bedroom valance, because it was the only valance long enough to house such an expanse. The wingspan had to be kept safe, and free from the possibility of buckling or warping, so where else could my father put it in our small apartment? There was nowhere, but I still didn’t like it in my bedroom. Every time I went into my room, all I could see straight ahead of me just above my window, were those 7ft. 6 inches of wingspan (the measurements of which I recall precisely, even now, many decades later). It was not something I could ignore. I just wished it didn’t have to stay in my bedroom.
I was, nevertheless, always a loyal, helpful, and obedient daughter, still doing my very best to “take a line on it” as soon as I saw my father’s model aircraft in the distance gliding towards the ground into that long grass, where, unless he could find it again, the plane might lay hidden for years on end, till it was eaten by termites.
