There are a number ways to celebrate an important birthday. You could go out to dinner. You could buy a thoughtful gift. You could even play it safe with a tie. Or -if you’re a recently divorced family operating with five dollars, three kids, and an alarming amount of confidence- you could attempt to recreate early aviation history in the playground of an elementary school. Here’s how that turned out.
My dad turned thirty-five two years after my parents divorced in the early 1990s. It wasn’t an easy time, but Mom and Dad had one rule: no bad-mouthing each other to us kids. When Dad’s birthday rolled around, Mom managed to scrape together five bucks -no small feat then- and took us to Walmart to find him a present.
Our committee -my ten-year-old sister, four-year-old me, and my three-year-old brother- took our assignment seriously. After what I recall as intense deliberation over what to pick out, we landed on a giant foam glider. Why? I couldn’t tell you. What I can say is that this wasn’t some flimsy little balsa wood throwaway. This plane was massive!
The glider, styled like a jumbo jet, was three feet long and featured an even wider wingspan. Its pieces came stuffed into a crinkly plastic sleeve stapled to some colorful cardboard. Wings, tail, and fuselage could be assembled without glue or anything tricky. Our childhood logic felt absolutely airtight: the foam plane was cheap, it looked fun, and -most importantly- it demanded an experience. My siblings and I wouldn’t just give it to Dad- we’d go out and fly it! Try doing that with a tie.
When Dad’s birthday finally arrived, he made the drive down from Fort Wayne to pick us up at our duplex on Muncie’s northwest side. We were buzzing with anticipation. So was he! Our launch site was an easy call: Yorktown Elementary, where my sister went to school. It sported a wide-open playground, plenty of runway, and nothing but sky ahead of us. Off we went, ready to let ‘er rip.
Prevailing winds blew from the west. After a couple of plunkers from my brother and me, Dad took control as he launched the plane eastward. Mesmerized, we watched it lift into the air! For a moment -just a moment- it worked exactly as advertised. The plane soared beautifully, gliding farther than any of us expected.
The plane was headed toward State Road 32. We watched in silent amazement as our five-dollar marvel drifted slowly, majestically, and completely out of control toward the highway. Fortunately, it landed gracefully. Unfortunately, a truck hit it. The massive Peterbilt didn’t clip or brush the glider; it crushed it. Practically nothing remained! The plane’s entire maiden flight, from proud launch to total destruction, lasted maybe ten seconds.
Dad stood there for a second, looking out at the highway where what was left of his birthday present were scattered in a swirling debris field. Then he laughed at the absurdity of it all. Sally, John, and I didn’t know what to do, so we broke out in laughter too! Looking back, it was probably the shortest-lived birthday gift Dad ever received. Fortunately, it might also have been the most memorable.
There are probably a few lessons buried in that ten-second flight. The first one is that five-dollar gifts can deliver million-dollar memories- even if they don’t survive the maiden voyage. Secondly: if your foam plane flight path includes a state highway, you may want to rethink your launch strategy. Finally, the one that’s stuck with me the most is that things don’t have to last to matter.
The foam plane we got Dad was gone almost as soon as it arrived, but the moment -the four of us standing there, guffawing at how spectacularly it all went wrong- has somehow held together for me for more than thirty years. That’s not bad for a gilder that never made it back from its first, and final, flight.
