My dad was primarily a balsa airplane builder and on exciting occasions he took my younger brother and I with him to one of the two hobby shops in the Detroit suburb of Ferndale. The big one was a place called Models Hobby on Woodward Ave. (Yes, the Woodward Avenue famous for cruising and racing.) This was a big glass-fronted building with a large railroad crossing sign above the roof. Inside it was a bright, spacious and entertaining place. Big on model railroad, there were multiple working layouts on display. Most fascinating to me was a long HO set up that could be viewed only through multiple windows evenly spaced along a wall. Basically they were window boxes providing a ground level look into a tiny, silent, moving railroad world. Today, kids would exclaim "Awesome!" Being a quiet kid, I just used to stare through the glass wide-eyed.
Then there were the airplanes. Suspended high on the ceiling were dozens of built model planes -- from huge R/C jobs, control line and free flight planes, through nearly all the plastic kits available at the time. I walked into people and shelf units with my face pointed upward, mentally identifying everything I saw. Like a small sponge, I soaked it all in. So much to see and so much I wanted to take home with me.
The other hobby shop was nearly the polar opposite of Models Hobby. Only about a mile away was an odd, truly hole-in-the-wall place called Ray's.
Ray's was named after the sour old guy that ran the place. Where Models was big, vibrant, and located on bustling Woodward Ave., Ray's was tiny, cramped and located on a more tranquil Nine Mile Rd. Ray's was only open on evenings and weekends when, it was assumed, Ray was off from his full-time job. The entrance was bordered by two large window displays of kit boxes and other hobby items to be found within. The colors of the boxes were sun-bleached to pastels. A layer of dust and a sprinkling of dead flies added a sense of abandonment to the scene.
Imagine walking into a place so piled with kits that there was just one 30 foot isle straight from the door to the cash register -- an isle wide enough for one and a half people. What little daylight that did enter the place was filtered by all the kit boxes piled high. On the left as you walked in were car kits from the floor to nearly the ceiling. On the right, airplanes and everything else. About two thirds of the way down the main isle was an opening on the right that led to another narrow isle that ran the length of the store. Most of the balsa kits were found down this isle, but order was not the sense one got about the place. Imagine Ray having no sense of stock rotation. Imagine him having been in the business since the dark ages of plastic modeling. Imagine huge inventory. What didn't sell got buried under another layer of newer kits. Lots and lots of them. My dad thought it quite a mystery how a hobby shop that was hardly ever open, could have so much stuff. But there it was.
I have a few fond, nearly magical memories of my dad, and I as a very little kid, in there together. He searched the balsa kits with interest while I marveled at all I saw. This was truly some kind of paradise. A couple fabulous times he helped me pick out a model airplane to build myself. There was just way, way too much for a grade school kid to choose from and a father's guidance was much appreciated. At the time, our family was small and dad had time to play. This would change.
By the mid 60s, dad's involvement in model building was winding down. My own was in full gear -- as full gear as it could be in with my meager part-time job income. Models had ceased to be primarily toys, and the idea of a collection had taken hold. I wanted a BIG collection. While my local hardware store (which kept a pretty impressive model department well-stocked) was my main kit source, I continued to visit Ray's, albeit without my father.
My grandparents lived in Ferndale and anytime the Hawkey kids were dropped off there for my parents to travel unencumbered, my brother and I would hike the mile distance to Ray's. These are the times I remember the clearest. I scanned the piles of kits for anything new in the cramped quarters, under the greenish glow from the overheard lights as the sun went down. A radio played quietly out of sight. Ray would be up there near the cash register surreptitiously keeping an eye on us. He never spoke. I always got the feeling he viewed us more as trespassers than customers. Occasionally someone would be in the isle besides my brother and I, but this was rare. It was always so quiet in there.
I still made occasional sorties to Models of course, but I found Ray's more interesting. I began to realize many of the kits he had were models you just didn't see anyplace else. They were old. While my interest was strictly in what was new, the old box covers brought back not too distant memories of when my dad built an occasional plastic airplane and when his dark rough hands guided my own. At about the same time I was noticing the old kits, the kit collector's movement began in earnest. However I wasn't a collector, I was a builder.
Ray had to know he had a lot of rare and getting rarer stuff on hand. A sad change in policy had developed in that customers were no longer allowed off the main isle and into what used to be the balsa area of the store. Problems with theft? Secrets back there in the other isle meant to be kept secrets? I don't know. I do know that I peered around the off-limits corner as hard and as far as I could to see what I could see. Mostly what could be seen were kit boxes in the dark. What was the forbidden fruit? I didn't want to own (I could not afford to own), I just wanted to see.
One Saturday I walked into Ray's and it was quickly obvious Ray wasn't there. A couple younger guys were behind the counter, in and out of the open back door, and having a boisterous time. This was like a bachelor party inside a church. The atmosphere suggested a spell had been broken. I don't know if I was even noticed. I thought that with different management -- if for a day -- the rules might be different. I didn't ask. With heart pounding I slipped down the forbidden isle. If I got kicked out, I'd just feign ignorance. Well to the guys running the show that day, it was no big deal.
Welcome to the time machine. I was transported back to 1959 or so. The only thing missing was my dad. Yes indeed there were extinct kits back there; lots and lots of them in the same kind of general disorder as the rest of the store. I scanned with wonder box ends with the familiar black hand-inked prices on them. It was a tingling experience. Though I was still quite young, this was transport back to a still earlier, purer time that was gone forever. And I knew it. I don't remember how long I lingered. I pulled some relics out of the stacks to examine more closely, but not to buy. I was looking for nothing in particular, and owning a little piece of history wasn't a concept that occurred to me in my early-teens. I just wanted to see -- and I saw. One last time.
Not long after that, I paid a standard visit to Ray's to see what was new. After checking out the authorized section of the store, I went back to my habit of looking beyond into the off-limits places. My eyes traveled high into the corner near one of the front windows. I'm sure I blinked at least once. How had I not seen this before? There were a stack of at least four very old Revell gift box sets of Air Force fighter jet kits. "Air Power" the set was called, and it was issued in conjunction with a long gone television series of the same name. If I'd ever seen it as a kid (and I may have) it would've been one of those models for adults, and I'd go back to looking for something more "reasonable" for myself. Something in a Lindberg or UPC box with a .39 price tag, for instance.
Air Power consisted an F-100, F-101, F-102, B-57, and most importantly to me, an F-89. When I was in second grade my grandparents bought me a Revell F-89 Scorpion. That airplane enthralled me for some reason, and the box art showing one parked on the snow with all its red arctic markings was just the coolest thing to look at. Obtaining that model and building it was the first of some peak modeling experience for me. The F-89 still enthralled me and the Revell kit (at the time unobtainable -- no ebay to go to in 1967) was still the only one ever made. Now there it was, in a box with four other old jet kits. Not only that, I could clearly read the price inked on the ends of the boxes: $5.98. Hell, I'd have paid six bucks for the Scorpion alone!
Not that six dollars wasn't an insignificant amount of money for me at the time. That was about twice what I'd spend on a kit (or kits) in one pop. Staring up at my prize, I was frustrated knowing I couldn't go home with it this outing. The idea of borrowing money from my dad for a model kit was not even an idea I could entertain. "Buy something you can afford!" would've been his response. Oh, but I'd be back soon. Would they still be there?
I was back with my $5.98 plus tax in about a week. There was a hurdle to overcome though. I couldn't get to my prize by myself. I'd have to ask Ray to get it for me. It was in his part of the store; a hard to get at part of his store. I didn't even know if he'd allow me to buy that rarity. I was a very shy kid, and speaking to grumpy old Ray was the highest price I was being asked to pay for my F-89 and its friends. I don't remember my words. To my relief and delight, Ray listened, walked to the far end of the store, saw where I pointed, and wordlessly left to fetch a ladder. He climbed to the ceiling and took the top kit off the stack. "These are getting pretty hard to find", he said. Oh yes.
He didn't question the obviously deflated price on the box end. I paid for my Holy Grail and got out of there and into the waiting family car as fast as I could. Hooo-ray!!! Of course I couldn't wait to get it home to inspect the contents. My extreme joy turned to disbelief and disappointment. I was obviously not the first one to break into the box. I don't remember the exact details, but I think some pieces had been glued together. Pieces may or may not have been missing. Bottom line was I'd purchased damaged goods in any modeler's book.
Suddenly the situation got very depressing. There were at least three other kits to choose from, but I'd have to go back and face Ray again. Not only face him, but complain to him, and ask for replacement goods. (If he'd been really smart, he'd have climbed back up that ladder, gathered the rest of the Air Power kits and hidden them to sell to collectors at way more than six bucks apiece.) And I'd need wheels. Would dad be sympathetic to my plight? How soon could we get back there? Time, as they say, was of the essence.
Well, dad took an interest in my situation. We returned in a couple days and he provided back-up of a sort. He was also probably curious to see his old hang-out after a long absence. The remaining Air Powers were where I last saw them. I showed Ray the problem and there was no argument. He and my dad carried on some friendly chatter as he got the ladder again and brought down another kit. No.2 was as intact as the day it left the Revell factory. Life was beautiful again.
Very shortly thereafter, I discovered the Squadron Shop in Hazel Park. This was a paradigm shift for me as far as hobby shops went. That place was what it was all about. The Squadron Shop began to claim the majority of my hobby dollars and hobby shop visits. The Ferndale hobby shops carried on without me.
In the early 70s, I made some long range bicycle rides to Models and Rays. Something was up at Ray's. The CLOSED sign became a fixture. You could peer through the locked front door and see the kits, but there was no entry and no explanation. Seemed stupid to go a long distance to a closed shop. Then on a visit to Models, there was inventory that seemed out of place. Older kits. Not really old, but not current, either. At pretty good prices. I biked the extra mile and a half to Ray's and found a largely empty building. Did the old guy die? Decide life was too short to spend his off hours in a gloomy hobby shop and quit the business? Who was Ray? Did he have a hobby besides his hobby shop? How long was he in business? When did he open his store, anyway? To this day I can't answer the questions.
Only years later did I appreciate what a truly amazing place (to plastic hobbyists) Ray's was. I've heard many stories of similar places all over the country. Ray's was my own portal to the past. That kind of place with it's odd honest charm and terrible stock management no longer exists. What kind of similar memories will kids these days have years down the road? Quirky comic and video game stores?
As a footnote, in 2004, I think it was, I saw on ebay an empty box from one of those Air Power kits sell for over $100. Just the empty box. I hope Ray didn't see that.
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