Big Red

Emma's back today and she's remembering her Uncle Harlan.

By Liz Zuercher

My poker-faced Uncle Harlan was a tough nut to crack.  Short and wiry with wavy blond hair and fine long fingers, he wasn’t physically imposing, but I remember as a child being a little leery of him anyway.  Maybe it was because he didn’t say much, and I had to strain to hear him when he did speak.  Unless he was talking about his airplanes.

A bachelor approaching fifty, Harlan might have been married to his meticulous work as an optician grinding and polishing lenses every day.  But he was definitely in love with the model airplanes he built at his garage workbench. Uncle Harlan’s eyes sparkled when he talked about his models.

When a new plane was ready – joints smooth, paint glossy, motor installed – he’d take us kids to Flyer’s Hill, a spot overlooking the Pacific where all the modelers flew their planes, and he’d test out his latest creation.

Uncle Harlan was particularly excited about trying out Big Red.  Since he’d never named a plane before, we knew this one must be different.  And it was.  Big Red was his largest plane yet, his masterpiece, he said.  He even bought a special engine by mail order. 

“Paid a fortune for it,” he said.  Another first for Uncle Harlan.

After months of construction, sanding, painting and fine-tuning, Big Red was ready for her maiden flight on Uncle Harlan’s fiftieth birthday.  The whole family gathered at Flyer’s Hill for the occasion.  He started up the engine, held the remote control box in both hands and sent Big Red off into the air to cheers from all of us.  After a stutter from the engine that left us breathless, the plane climbed, circled and swooped in answer to Herman’s commands.

“Isn’t she a thing of beauty?” Harlan said with pride.

We all nodded.  Big Red was indeed glorious.

Then, without warning, Big Red took on a mind of her own.  Instead of completing the loop back to us that Harlan signaled with the remote, Big Red veered off toward the ocean.  Harlan wiggled the toggle back and forth trying to steer Big Red back to land, but she just dipped a wing and headed farther out to sea.  We watched in horror as she flew out of sight.

Uncle Harlan stared at the horizon, heaved a big sigh and packed up his gear.  “Well that’s that,” he said.

As we all trouped to our cars, no one said anything.  What was there to say about such a loss in the family?

Not long after that Uncle Harlan surprised us all by marrying Martha Springer, a large jolly auburn-haired woman who was five years older than Harlan and also had never been married.  He gave up flying model airplanes and took up making plastic model tanks instead, filling three curio cabinets with them.  None had names or engines. 

“At least they won’t get away from me,” he’d say with a far away look in his eye and a catch in his voice.  Maybe he wasn’t so tough after all.