Flight School
I am on record as stating that I have always been
uncool. And, for the most part, I have
been fine with being uncool. I believe
that time spent worrying about what others think of you is time wasted. Why value the opinion of others who don’t
have your best interest in mind?
This week, however, I have been mulling that over anew
because quite out of the blue I recalled a week in 8th grade when I
was, in fact, cool. I attended a
catholic grade school in the later 1960’s and early 1970’s when there was a
shift from all the teachers being consecrated religious who still wore
traditional habits, to about half of the teachers being laypersons who tended to
be young and dress modern. When I was in
8th grade my homeroom and science teacher was Mr. Wobig who had long
hair, a beard and moustache and a corduroy sport coat.
My brief period of coolness flared up when the school
decided to carve out two weeks when, in addition to mornings spent in core
classes, the afternoons were devoted to non-traditional topics. My good friends Randy and Pete and I were the
only three students who signed up for Mr. Wobig’s “applied science” offering.
It turned out that Mr. Wobig was open to suggestions
about what we would study. We spent the
first special class period at the downtown library searching through the card
catalog and reference books for interesting topics. I don’t recall
which of us stumbled on the topic of flight, but that’s what we decided
on. No one was jealous of us at first as
we prepared a presentation on how lift was created and how it kept an airplane
aloft. However, everyone became jealous
when Mr. Wobig said that since the course was “applied science” that the rest
of our special classes would be devoted to the construction and flight of a real model airplane.
I think even my parents thought the idea was cool
because I didn’t even get yelled at when I asked for five dollars as my
contribution to the purchase of a model airplane kit from the hobby store. Even in 1972, model airplanes weren’t cheap,
so with our $15 and whatever Mr. Wobig chipped in to cover the cost, we were
only able to purchase the most rudimentary plane. It was a basic as basic could be, but it
included a real engine. It was enough to
make the rest of the class, well at least the other boys, quite jealous when
they saw it on Mr. Wobig’s desk.
It took us most of the rest of our special class time
to assemble the plane. While with some tasks
many hands make light work, when assembling a model plane the work was a bit more clumsy with all those hands. But, the
plane did have all its required parts in place, and it looked reasonably alike
the picture on the cover of the box, for the maiden test flight during our final
special class.
I remember how proud we were when we headed outside to
the back playground to prepare for takeoff.
All the rest of our 8th grade classmates trailed behind
us. I knew how Charles Lindberg must
have felt when he touched down in France.
Since none of us had any experience in flying model planes we chose straws. That’s how Pete became our first pilot, but
we were all going to get a turn.
The plane was what’s known as a tether plane, meaning
it had a kite string tied to it. We weren't ready yet for the whole wild blue yonder. As the
pilot, Pete just had to stand in the center and guide the plane around in circles, kind of like a cowboy twirling his lariat. It was Mr. Wobig's job to launch the plane
skyward. The goal was that Randy and I would also get to “fly”
the plane for about twenty circles around.
The tiny gas tank was filled. The air became tense. We wrapped the string around the starter and
pulled. Nothing. We repeated the steps. Nothing.
The engine didn’t even sputter. Some
of the other kids began asking if they could go back inside. Suddenly – if you can say suddenly after
about 20 minutes of failure spent trying to start the engine – the engine roared,
or maybe better said, high-pitched whined to life. Mr.
Wobig held the plane in his hand – the propeller was spinning frantically. He walked away from Pete, who held the kite
string tightly. The string was tense;
the air was again tense. Mr. Wobig released
the plane and ducked quickly out of the way.
The little plane immediately climbed altitude and then nosedived into
the ground. If we could have filmed it
in slow motion I’m sure that the crash was spectacular as balsa wood wings and
tail sections splintered into all directions.
The whining engine stopped instantly.
All-in-all the flight probably covered about ten feet and 1.2
seconds.
We picked up all of the pieces. Mr. Wobig said that he would keep the pieces
and the engine and maybe use them to rebuild the plane. If he ever did, it was well after I had moved
onto high school.
My brief flirtation with coolness did not turn my
head. I had no lasting illusions that it was ever
really meant for me anyway.
His Peace <><
Deacon Dan
Photo by Marcus Zymmer on Unsplash
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