John had an interest in model aeroplanes as a child. He would either assemble balsa wood kits or construct various models from plans. They were very delicate structures made from slim pieces of wood often covered by tissue paper with a small engine fitted at the front to drive them. He built both wire controlled and radio controlled models. They took him a long time to construct with each component having to be individually shaped and glued. With such an involved construction process it is difficult to know what was most rewarding; the construction or the actual flying of the finished model. Arguably, both. Large engines fitted to wire controlled models could fly at tremendous speeds compared with their size. The free flight or radio-controlled models could achieve a great height, and it was truly amazing that such things could be built, and fly so well. The radio-controlled models must have been the ultimate in model building.
There were hazards to this kind of hobby. The lines on the wire controlled models can break, and if this occurs they generally go screaming into the distance until they smash into the ground, or hit a tree or some other solid object. Some may slam into the ground simply because a particular model may be difficult to control. John was forever returning home with his models in more pieces than intended because of crashes. One of his free flight models flew so high that when it ran out of fuel it drifted into the distance and out of view, and when finally located, on a very busy road the remains were little different from road kill.
There was one model he had built that came to grief on the living room floor. My father was rather clumsy, at times. There was a chair positioned against the wall just under the living room window. He had stepped up onto it for some reason. He may have been cleaning the window, or opening, or closing it. I can’t remember. John was also in the living room, crouched on the floor near the chair that my father was standing on, attending to one of his model aeroplanes in some way. Upon completion of what he was doing, my father got off the chair, and accidentally damaged John’s model aeroplane. On climbing down, he stepped backward off the chair, as one does, but not watching where he was going, stepped directly onto the model. Crunch. I think the wing got crushed. John was enraged. My father was devastated, and didn’t know what to do or say. My mother rushed into the room, but couldn’t console John. She was furious with my father. John was in a screaming rage. My father was intensely upset, and begged forgiveness. It was an accident, but it was another reason for John to hate his father. John never forgot this experience. It became a millstone in both their lives, and he reminded his father of it more often than he should have. In hindsight, I wonder whether the model had been moved nearer the chair, into a danger zone, after my father had climbed onto it. Leaving such a fragile object on the floor in any room is a risky thing to do at the best of time. To leave it on the ground as he did, with my father working, may have been inviting trouble.