Posted by wazoo22 |
Oct 02, 2013 @ 04:24 AM | 1,352 Views
A Dimes' Worth of Fun A Memoir
We take Cleveland Avenue under the railroad and out past the old Timken roller bearing plant through an industrial neighborhood of abused streets, and grimy bars of the “Billiards Food” breed. We turn left into a brick side road, and my dad's ancient 1949 Nash Ambassador lists strongly to starboard as we round the corner, it's soggy suspension taking a while to recover what little equilibrium it can muster after the turn, only to lose it again in another destabilizing swoop into the clubhouse parking lot. I wait for my stomach to settle, then get out.
After some prodding from mom, my dad, who wouldn't be caught dead on an airplane let alone build one, is taking me to the Columbus Model Fliers meeting. I'm eight years old, and in love with anything that flies.
The building is a quonset hut- a steel wartime building composed of corrugated panels rolled into curved sections that could be overlapped and made into almost any size building. Stiff enough to be self-supporting, the system produced large structures with almost no internal supports. Dad opens the entrance door, and inside the translucent panels in the roof, plus the incandescent lighting produce an off-color light, a yellowish semi-gloom that takes time to adjust to. Therte's a wooden floor like a skating rink, and perhaps twenty men standing around in one end. A flock of young boys play quietly among the folding chairs, hardly