October 13th 06, 08:31 AM
October is when for a time at least the migger is replaced by the
jeweler's torch and the powered hacksaw gives way to a Gigli.
Circular cut-outs from flanging dies are rooted out of the junk-box,
chucked into the lathe and magically transformed into wheels of every
kind. Itty-bitty ball bearings picked up at swap meets and
'Clearance!' bins are tracked down. Designed for the ultimate in
aerospace hitek they are surprised to find themselves being pressed
into maple wheels, secured with a dab of uncertified JB Weld. Launched
not into space but across a living room floor, they still fulfill their
mission with the steely purr of whirr.
Odds and ends of spruce come to light from where they were tucked away
months or even years before. Now is their moment of usefulness,
justification for the death of a tree. They become the keels and
cross-pieces of kites, delicately tapered, silken cords across the
chord of their bows, covered with tissue paper, hemmed with glue,
shrunk with water and sealed with a mist of banana oil, the way my
grandfather showed my dad and Dad taught to me a million years ago in a
less complicated world. Distant in both time and space the
well-remembered skills are exercised once again, keeping them fresh for
the moment they can be transferred into younger hands and used to
produce things of real worth. Things that last. Things never seen on
Saturday morning TV and more valuable than gold because of it.
A slab of spruce six inches wide failed to make it into the air by a
thirty-second of an inch, it's thickness shy by that amount of the
honest quarter-inch needed to make the ribs for one of Roger Mann's
delightful little flying machines. But perfect for caskets, chests and
boxes to be filled with Treasure, Jewels and Secret Codes.
Doesn't have to be wood, of course. Steel, aluminum or composites,
they're all grist for the mill of whimsy, like Keith Stewart's
case-hardened steel egg to be hatched by a plastic duck.
Even when they are of wood, boxes don't have to be bricks.
Containers for dreams take any shape; of Pollywogs or Hearts and be all
the more suitable because of it. A bit more work but it's only
October; the Big Birthday still two months away. Time enough for the
gluing and sanding and finishing. Time enough to turn brass shim stock
into neat little four-knuckle hinges with a bit of brazing rod for the
pin. Inlays, too, if you care for that sort of thing, which I do.
A bit of scrimshaw for the boys, is always fun. Ex-Navy (and a Chief
to boot) the traditional Fouled Anchor is a favorite of mine, scribed
not into a whale's tooth nor ring of bone but the densely finished
lid of a brass-bound box eminently suitable for boy-stuff.
- - - - - -
Some of us build airplanes because it keeps the Dream alive. Simple
and light, with a hand-carved prop that must be flipped to bring the
engine alive, such machines hark back to an earlier age. Yet a basic
tenet of airmanship is that the more you fly, the better you will and
those simple machines rise above the ground with a stately grace and
lack of speed that makes an airfield of almost any patch of ground.
Which is good, because in America flying has become an elitist
activity, province of the wealthy in which the average man has been
forced out of his hangar, off the airport and ultimately, down from the
sky.
To build those machines of yesterday we are forced to invest in
ourselves, mastering a host of skills many deem useless in the modern
world. Stitching fabric to ribs earns us smiles of condescension,
scarfed joints in wood the damning of faint praise. Old Fashioned
Stuff of no interest to folks so busy making money that 51% means
picking out the upholstery or selecting the color of paint for their
'homebuilt' airplane.
How will such people will be remembered by their children? And their
children's children. What core of useful skills do such people
consider vital for the well-being of their off-spring? That the rules
don't apply to them? I wonder about such things. Not very often nor
for very long, but I still do.
October sees airplanes shifted to the back burner while the skills to
build them are focused on Dream Machines of a more basic sort, designed
to show a youngster they are beloved members of a family that respects
and encourages their particular Dream, wherever it may lead. Oddly
enough, in doing so, their Dreams become remarkably similar to our own,
molded by the reality of their generation and impressed with their own
personality but built upon the same foundation and constructed with the
same core values honored by their parents.
-R.S.Hoover
jeweler's torch and the powered hacksaw gives way to a Gigli.
Circular cut-outs from flanging dies are rooted out of the junk-box,
chucked into the lathe and magically transformed into wheels of every
kind. Itty-bitty ball bearings picked up at swap meets and
'Clearance!' bins are tracked down. Designed for the ultimate in
aerospace hitek they are surprised to find themselves being pressed
into maple wheels, secured with a dab of uncertified JB Weld. Launched
not into space but across a living room floor, they still fulfill their
mission with the steely purr of whirr.
Odds and ends of spruce come to light from where they were tucked away
months or even years before. Now is their moment of usefulness,
justification for the death of a tree. They become the keels and
cross-pieces of kites, delicately tapered, silken cords across the
chord of their bows, covered with tissue paper, hemmed with glue,
shrunk with water and sealed with a mist of banana oil, the way my
grandfather showed my dad and Dad taught to me a million years ago in a
less complicated world. Distant in both time and space the
well-remembered skills are exercised once again, keeping them fresh for
the moment they can be transferred into younger hands and used to
produce things of real worth. Things that last. Things never seen on
Saturday morning TV and more valuable than gold because of it.
A slab of spruce six inches wide failed to make it into the air by a
thirty-second of an inch, it's thickness shy by that amount of the
honest quarter-inch needed to make the ribs for one of Roger Mann's
delightful little flying machines. But perfect for caskets, chests and
boxes to be filled with Treasure, Jewels and Secret Codes.
Doesn't have to be wood, of course. Steel, aluminum or composites,
they're all grist for the mill of whimsy, like Keith Stewart's
case-hardened steel egg to be hatched by a plastic duck.
Even when they are of wood, boxes don't have to be bricks.
Containers for dreams take any shape; of Pollywogs or Hearts and be all
the more suitable because of it. A bit more work but it's only
October; the Big Birthday still two months away. Time enough for the
gluing and sanding and finishing. Time enough to turn brass shim stock
into neat little four-knuckle hinges with a bit of brazing rod for the
pin. Inlays, too, if you care for that sort of thing, which I do.
A bit of scrimshaw for the boys, is always fun. Ex-Navy (and a Chief
to boot) the traditional Fouled Anchor is a favorite of mine, scribed
not into a whale's tooth nor ring of bone but the densely finished
lid of a brass-bound box eminently suitable for boy-stuff.
- - - - - -
Some of us build airplanes because it keeps the Dream alive. Simple
and light, with a hand-carved prop that must be flipped to bring the
engine alive, such machines hark back to an earlier age. Yet a basic
tenet of airmanship is that the more you fly, the better you will and
those simple machines rise above the ground with a stately grace and
lack of speed that makes an airfield of almost any patch of ground.
Which is good, because in America flying has become an elitist
activity, province of the wealthy in which the average man has been
forced out of his hangar, off the airport and ultimately, down from the
sky.
To build those machines of yesterday we are forced to invest in
ourselves, mastering a host of skills many deem useless in the modern
world. Stitching fabric to ribs earns us smiles of condescension,
scarfed joints in wood the damning of faint praise. Old Fashioned
Stuff of no interest to folks so busy making money that 51% means
picking out the upholstery or selecting the color of paint for their
'homebuilt' airplane.
How will such people will be remembered by their children? And their
children's children. What core of useful skills do such people
consider vital for the well-being of their off-spring? That the rules
don't apply to them? I wonder about such things. Not very often nor
for very long, but I still do.
October sees airplanes shifted to the back burner while the skills to
build them are focused on Dream Machines of a more basic sort, designed
to show a youngster they are beloved members of a family that respects
and encourages their particular Dream, wherever it may lead. Oddly
enough, in doing so, their Dreams become remarkably similar to our own,
molded by the reality of their generation and impressed with their own
personality but built upon the same foundation and constructed with the
same core values honored by their parents.
-R.S.Hoover