The plane papa the plane

Tom here....The stories from the orphanage Solomon Klein are plentinfull and this one warrants retelling. It was a scorching afternoon and the kids and I were seeking shade beneath the high roof of the covered court in the park, playing with jumpropes and balls.

From the treadworn fenceline comes Wilson with a request. Wilson is a 5 year old version of a prizefighter ,wideset eyes , pushed in face, scars and scrapes both old and new, and teeth too few to count. In his blunt hands he's holding two crossed matchstick size twigs and a yellowed piece of grass. His eyes pierce me, his arms outstreched as he begs, "Avion papa, Avion"

Beyond the need for verbs or more words of any kind, I can see he wants me to make him a plane. My fingers set to work. Wilson gazes on, cocking his head with every turn of the grass. The grass ...it holds up, not too brittle, not too short. Macrame style I attatch the wing, finish it off with a couple of half hitches, and spin the fuselage so that the nub at one end resembles a tail. As I pass the plane to Wilson, his eyes light and the engine starts and in his grip it banks and turns away.

Soon a line forms, other boys with other sticks and grass. For half an hour my figers weave, engines start and planes bank against the cloudless sky. On my way home that night I walked the cobbled street back towards our apartment, amazed by the creativity of Wilson and the others at SK. Humbled by the rich life they make with so little, and while not ideal it is so much better than a life on the street.