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I would not, by writing this, presume to lecture you about
the passing of time. Time flows like
water and our bodies corrode in it until, in our seventies, eighties, or
nineties, we pass on, and there is nothing left to oxidize. Once we become a certain age I think we are
so very keenly aware of that. At least,
I am.
It took some
effort to recollect. Looking back is
like opening the attic door. You lift
aside the door and shove a ladder through the hole, climb up and poke your head
through. As your eyes adjust to the
darkness you see the light sifting through the eaves, particles of dust
floating in the rays. There’s your
handprint in the dust on the edge where the cover for the attic doorway
lay. Smells musty. On the floor there is the memory you’re
looking for, an old photograph that dropped and lay still so long ago, barely
visible for all the dust that lies on top of it. Let’s pick it up and dust it off.
I moved to a
little town called Eaton, Colorado in the autumn of 1985. Signed up for the eighth grade there, I
learned that the last hour of every Monday was dedicated to what they called
“mini-courses”. Mini-courses were small
extracurricular classes you could take so long as you were on good terms
academically. They ranged from model
rocketry to plastic models to computers, among other things. They were almost hobby-esque. Indeed, I selected plastic models there, and
it became a hobby which I pursue to this day.
The prerequisite
for the model building mini-course was, of course, that one had to have a model
to build. My mother had done her
homework in the yellow pages, and so we piled in the car for the ride to
Greeley, ten miles away, to make our purchase.
We arrived downtown on 10th street at a store called Don’s
Hobbies. Little was I to know that it
would become a fixture in my life.
Don’s Hobbies was
composed of a three story building and a basement. The building was old and dated from the
‘20’s, and it had a large chimney on the roof which vented the smoke from the
boilers it had once used for heat. The
front had a yellow painted façade with matching awning, under which gleamed
huge picture windows that showcased a raised display floor. Behind the glass perched huge model kits,
train sets, rockets-everything a growing boy could want in consumption of his
free time. Model kits, dolls, and
rockets were on the first floor, radio controlled vehicles of all types resided
on the second, and a slot car track and wargaming room occupied the third
floor. The basement housed model trains.
My brother and I
walked in, and were immediately awed.
Aisle upon aisle of model kits in all shapes and sizes. The boxes had dramatic pictures on the front
of them of airplanes roaring through the sky in frozen painted combat, or
Sherman tanks forging through the hedgerows of Normandy. Above us on the wall were the largest models,
huge eight-engined bombers, semi-trucks, or Star Trek kits. It was as if we had been picked up and
dropped into heaven, right into the vessels and vehicles in which our heroes
rode to glory. Which one to pick?
After much time
spent gawking over every possible selection, to our mother’s great relief we
finally exited the store. We each picked a model kit, and selected some paint
and glue as well. We were rung up at the front desk by a woman with a crooked
eye, using an ancient cash register. She
put our kits in large brown paper bags and pushed them across the counter. We clutched them as if holding gold bars, the
rustle of paper and smell of the store keen in our minds as we sat in the car
on the way home. They were greasy with
fingerprints and possibly saliva long before we’d gotten home. We were pretty poor and it was not often that
we would come home with something so cool, much less completely unnecessary.
Day one of the
mini-course came, and everyone in the class waited while safety rules were
outlined before beginning. Then, using
our newly purchased X-acto knives, we freed our kits from their packaging and
dove in with relish. My brother had
selected an SR-71 Blackbird spyplane, and I had picked out a P-61 Black Widow
night fighter. I don’t know why we both
picked black airplanes.
Over the semester,
those Monday afternoons on which we gathered to continue working on our models
were halcyon days. My brother and I met
many friends there, and four or five of us continued to build models long after
the mini-course ended. We found any way
we could to travel to Greeley, and often we would spend hours at Don’s before
we’d decide on a new model. The old
wooden floors creaked under our feet, and in the summer we sweated as we picked
up boxes to read the details. Don’s had
no air conditioning. Then it was off to home to crack open the box, and to
immediately begin gluing and painting.
We took less care than we should have, and in those early days there was
much excess glue spilled out of seams
and hardened into a gooey mess, and paint was brushed on haphazardly in uneven
layers. But slowly we improved, and upon
completing our latest kit, we would gather at someone’s house to show it
off. I don’t know if they were really
that impressive, but we oo-ed and ahh-ed just the same.
The time came
when building models had to give way to part-time jobs and first cars and
concerts. We all became busy with plans
after high school, and the informal group we had was sundered. Models were destroyed or left to collect
dust. I was the only one who remained
somewhat active in it. Even then, I found fewer and fewer opportunities to
visit Don’s, and I too languished as adult life took over. Don’s became a fond memory for a while, and a
fixture that I thought would never depart.
Twenty years passed.
After those few
years, I picked up the hobby again. As I
settled in to married life and moved into a house that had enough room to allow
a hobby again, I began visiting Don’s again.
They had new owners though and it wasn’t the same. I could tell already. They cared little for anything other than
radio control, and it showed in the new owners’ demeanor. I smelled death at Don’s Hobbies. I tried to spend as much money as I could
there in order to support them, but as time went on they stocked less product
and fewer new models. Then they
announced they were moving to a new building across town, and my foreboding
grew worse. Their old location was taken
by a Hispanic appliance store. At the
new store they focused on radio control and began to offer aquarium products
and fish. What once was a great hall of
models now amounted to two or three shelves of dusty, ancient kits.
And then the day
came. My wife and I had decided to meet
for lunch, and I suggested the local sub shop since it was right next to Don’s,
and I needed some supplies anyway. We
drove together in my Jeep, and as I pulled up, the windows looked darker than usual. Immediately I got a lump in my stomach, but I
denied it and walked over to the door.
It was locked. There was no
sign. I cupped my hands to the glass to
look inside and of course it was empty.
One empty counter and dirty floors were all that remained of my
childhood friend. It was like looking at
a grave. That was that. The companion that had kept me busy for so
many nights under a desk lamp in a corner of my room, and in whom I had spent
cumulatively probably days, if not weeks, wandering the aisles, was gone. Don’s was gone.
I still build
models. I’m pretty good at it. I buy most of my stuff online now, but every
time I do, I am reminded of those days wandering Don’s aisles in search of a
new project. The friendliness of the old
clerk Tony back in the day and the smile of his wife who had the crooked eye
haunt me like ghosts. I drive by the old brick building from time to time, and
I see the spirits of our youth comparing their newest purchases in the parking
lot. Brick buildings and model kits mark
the passage of time like totems of adolescence.
I suppose all things must change.
Maybe this styrene I work with will serve as a granite marker. In remembrance.