This is Michael.Every now and then I see him in the Forest.
He always carries a model airplane, or a wing, or some fragment of a craft.
By his side is a wooden toolbox.
This afternoon I noticed him, stationary, in the middle of the field.
He stood with a sloppy slouch on bended knees, ready as though a gust of wind might carry him away on the wings of his airplane.
Reluctantly, but overtaken by my curiosity, I walked up to him and asked about his model plane.
"Oh this," he said. "I'm testing out a new area-by-weight ratio. And waiting for my hands to warm up before I give it a go."
I noticed a pair of black fleece gloves, wet with frost on the grass beside his toolbox.
I looked at my hands, my blue gloves tattered from cycling in them, and decided not to offer. They'd never fit and I'd freeze a lot sooner than he.
Michael introduced himself and then pinned my accent to a town in Southern Ontario. Impressive.
Turns out he left his home in Scotland, and found residence in Canada for nearly 30 years after serving in the military. He moved from place to place but spent most of his time in Quebec and northern Ontario.
Small world.
He has been building model airplanes for years and competes in championships across the globe. The competition requires only that the craftsman meets a specified weight requirements. Any material and design can be used to craft the fastest, most efficient, and robust model plane. He's written books on the physics of it.
Michael has actually flown aircraft during his service. I briefed him on the consecutive emergency landings my family and I endured and told him I just don't appreciate the thrill anymore. I'd rather take the aisle seat.
His airplane was marvellous. Its joints pieced together like a boot to the ski - locked in tightly to remain in tact but in such a way that a crash landing would enable it to detach from the body of the plane to avoid serious damage. Very cool.
He told me that the kids at the park torment him sometimes. He gets anxious when they try to pick up pieces of a landed plane - the slightest bend in the material will render it grounded for life. A moment passed before the wing slipped from his hand.
My instinct was to reach for it and rescue it from the cold, hard ground.
Apologizing, I told him it was simply reflex.
He laughed and promised I had done no damage to the wing.
I left soon after, warmed by our conversation but chilled from the cold wind that dampened the old man's greyish beard.
