New Buffalo Memories, Art Airplane
by Terry Brennan – Class of '62I hadn't gotten much further along than third grade or so when a very attractive newcomer named Barbara Ahlbran, arrived in New Buffalo to teach fifth or sixth grade. I recall that one of the schools more irreverent youngsters, John Nicksic, upon hearing her name, inquired as to whether or not she was any relation to the cereal? I can't say whether John went to the corner, or perhaps even to the principal's office, for his antics, but I am certain that he got a sizable laugh in the classroom for that mild verbal irreverence. Cereal or not, Barbara Ahlbran came all the way from Texas, to teach school in New Buffalo, with her husband Art in tow. To our ultimate pleasure they took up residence on Oak Street in Grand Beach.
Presumably Art had a day time job of some sort as well, but it didn't matter. What did matter was that he built and flew model airplanes as a hobby, which endeared him to our gang because, like all boys of tender years, we loved anything with wheels or wings–and all the more so if it made noise. He, and newly befriended aviation assistant Kenny Hurlburt, took to flying the models on the fifth green of the Grand Beach Golf Course, just a short distance from my friend Louie Nicksic's house. Since Louie's place was our hangout of choice, it was not all surprising to find us on hand for nearly every airborne adventure launched by the two men on those long summer and early fall evenings, when the last of the golfers had given up the facility.
Back in the mid–fifties there was no such thing as a radio controlled model and all of Art's creations were tethered to the pilot by two wires that controlled the up and down motion of the aircraft as it raced madly around in 360 degree turns–one dizzying circuit after another. As disorienting as it must have been to Art, he nonetheless whirled round–and–round in a blur, deftly controlling the elevator surface on the airplane that kept it from crashing to the earth. We sat at the green's edge, amazed that a man could possess such talent. How, we marveled, could someone spin around in circles for so long, suffering the inevitable affects of dizziness, and still bring the fragile balsa wood flyer safely back to Earth in one piece?
Small, relatively insignificant models of simple construction gave way to more elaborate miniature flying machines as Art became more adept at piloting and more talented at building his creations. The models grew in size, and the length of the wires that controlled them was extended, as larger engines propelled them in ever widening circles. "What would Art build next, we asked ourselves?" anxiously awaiting the arrival of his next creation. A fair amount of time had passed by the time the two men returned to the ad hoc airfield–this time with a much more elaborate machine than ever before.
Using great care the two unpacked and dutifully prepared for flight a magnificently crafted scale model P–51 Mustang, that simply took our breath away. It was beautiful. With a wingspan of approximately thirty inches it was the largest model that Art had built to date and certainly the most realistic looking of any that had come before. Complete down to the last bit of lettering on the side of the fuselage and to its authentic invasion stripes painted on the wings and on its flanks, this was without a doubt his ultimate masterpiece.
Art and Kenny seemed to ignore my friends and me as we stood in awe of this remarkable creation–so intent they were on getting it flying by day's end. Much care had to be taken, we correctly assumed, to insure that everything was in order for the maiden voyage lest a tragedy befall this, the grandest of all airplane models to ever launch from the fifth green. When at last Art stood proudly at the center of the putting surface, and Kenny knelt next to model ready to excite the glow plug that would allow the engine to start, we knew we were in for a show like we had never seen before. Oh brother, were we ever right about that.
With as much fanfare as the duo could muster short of hiring a brass band, Kenny hooked the electrical cable to the engine and spun the propeller with the tip of his finger. After only a couple of tries, it fired up with a commotion that could have been heard three blocks away. This was indeed a much greater airplane and engine combination than we had ever seen on the golf course before and our excitement meters, had there been such a thing, would easily have been pegged at the max. The big man fine tuned the mixture needle to achieve the most power possible from the growling engine and when it sounded just right to them both, Art nodded his head and Kenny let loose the tail of the P–51. The instant burst of acceleration that propelled the model forward ended a nanosecond later when the nose of the craft pitched forward solidly into the dirt and the engine came to a forcible stop.
Disappointment immediately replaced the elation of a moment before as the two men carefully freed the bird from the turf and mopped its nose and propeller of the dirt and debris that had accumulated following the first, extremely short takeoff roll. Since the airplane had suffered only ignobly, and not structurally, on the previous attempt, within a few minutes time the two were once again ready for launch,. With no changes to the craft itself, the results of takeoff number two were somewhat predictable and not surprisingly resulted in an instant replay of the prior failure.
Sensing Art's frustration, we were not surprised to see him take corrective action before the third attempt at getting airborne. From the box of equipment that he had brought to the golf course, he fetched a handful of miniature hardware pieces used in building the model. Instinctively he assumed that the aircraft was nose heavy and to remedy the situation he lifted the top half of the fuselage off the airplane and placed the hardware very near the tail cone. That accomplished, he returned to his control positions and the countdown started once again. For our part, a certain level of impatience had set in and we were particularly anxious to see the thing fly before nightfall. We had already missed dinner and paying the price for that indiscretion without a real flight would have been sad indeed.
For the third time Kenny fired up the engine and let go on cue. This time the P–51 launched quickly into the air and immediately began a series of oscillations that Art simply could not control. They started out as somewhat shallow dives and climbs that quickly grew, within a circuit or two, to some very serious ups–and–downs. Climbing higher and higher and sinking lower and lower toward the grass below with each oscillation, things did not look good, except to a group of young bystanders who enjoyed a good crash as much as they did a successful flight.
Desperately Art played at the control handle in an attempt to right things, all the while knowing full well that he had put too much weight in the back of the airplane, thus throwing off the proper center of gravity and, like a man trapped in a cage with a ferocious hungry lion, it was only a matter of time before disaster would strike. On its last and fateful climb, the model ascended on a nearly vertical line before descending straight down into the ground with a dull thud that instantaneously splintered the once proud P–51 into a million toothpicks. The deafening drone of the model's two stroke power plant was silenced in a heartbeat and a tense quiet came over the fifth green, broken at once by the uproarious laughter of our gang perched nearby.
Ahlbran took one sad look at the remains of his extensive labor, and one look at us, reveling as we were in his great misfortune, then contemplated his actions for only a second before tearing after us all in some misguided attempt to avenge his failure and soothe his unhappiness. Kenny, witnessing this from a distance, also launched into a sprint. As I look back I cannot be certain whether it was his intention to help his flying partner throttle the escaping miscreants or whether he thought it better to attempt a tackle, lest Art actually catch one of us and do real bodily harm. In any event we need not have worried. Both men were hopelessly out of shape and gave up the chase within a half block or so, as three youngsters quickly departed the scene on young legs and strong lungs.
Art and Kenny came back to the golf course often and flew their models again and again– but none ever measured up to the stunningly gorgeous P–51, and fortunately none had the weight and balance problem that doomed the Mustang. For our part the entertainment was pretty much over after the taunt and chase episode, and we kept our distance from then on, in the unlikely event that the man at the other end of the wires snap once again and attempt to salve the pain from an old wound.
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