Spinning in the wind

By Susan Culwell Delenne
March 7, 2003
 

Itís been two years since my husband and I met Mr. Davis.  We were on the hunt for some yard art.  As usual I was approaching this hunt as if the find was pure gold, because to me it was.  I had learned of Mr. Davis from folks who knew of his hobby, making airplanes out of soft drink cans.

Fred and I drove to Sumiton and found Mr. Davis.  He lived in an older brick house that had seen its better days.  Things looked a little ragged around the place.  When I met Mr. Davis I understood why.  He was a slight, small man, thin and he walked a little slow.  Iíd suppose he was in his 70s.  He was retired from Hays Aircraft in Birmingham.  He made airplanes out of tin cans because he loved the flying machines.

Mr. Davis didnít have a pattern; he just went to work and figured out how to make his works of art.  Heíd seen others stab at tin can airplanes, but he knew he could do better.  His airplanes were bigger, better, they had more turning parts and they were just prettier.  He figured out just the way to bend the wire to hold the spinning airplanes and he used large beads to help accessorize the piece.

When Mr. Davis took Fred and me into his garage, we realized we had entered airplane heaven.  It was a sight to behold.  There were flying machines in red, green, blue, brown and yellow.  For a very low price, Fred and I loaded our truck and back seat full.  Mr. Davis waved goodbye as we left and told us to come again.  He was a proud man who had made two new friends with a keen appreciation of his talents.

Fred and I love our spinning and flying machines.  We enjoy seeing, watching and hearing them spin on breeze days.

Yesterday I went back to Walker County.  I was alone and making a business trip, but there was time to stop by Mr. Davisí house.  I wanted a few more airplanes and I especially wanted to send one to a friend of mine.

I had no trouble finding Mr. Davisí house.  Things looked about the same, but I could sense something was missing.  I walked slowly to the back door hoping someone would meet me on the cluttered porch.  They didnít.  I hoped someone was home.  When I knocked on the clear storm door,k I saw an old woman sitting at the table.  She came to the door.  It was Mrs. Davis.

I introduced myself.  I told her Iíd been there before and bought airplanes from Mr. Davis.  And I told her Iíd love to have more.  She wiped her mouth, lowered her head and I knew what would come next.  She said Mr. Davis was gone.  He died in October.

I told Mrs. Davis how sorry I was.  But she smiled and said that there were some airplanes left if I wanted them. She said no one in her family wanted them.

She and I walked to the garage.  The same garage Iíd walked to with Mr. Davis just two years ago. It was a sad trip.  I left as if I was invading someoneís private place as we approached the garage.  Mrs. Davis was unable to left the garage door so I obliged.  I was much more able bodied than she.

When the door lifted, the garage looked as the Davis place did, something was missing.  There was a quietness about the place. There were not as many airplanes as there was before.  They were dusty.  As I reached for each precious airplane I made sure I handled them with care.  I knew, as Mrs. Davis did, there would be no more.

I was almost overwhelmed with sadness as we packed the airplanes in my trunk. I just didnít feel right about taking something so personal.  But Mrs. Davis fixed that, as Iím sure sheís fixed so many other things in her life. She reminded me how much her husband loved making the airplanes.  She said no one in her family appreciated or wanted these fine pieces of art. But she knew I loved them or I would never have made a second trip.

Mrs. Davis asked me to pray for her family.  I assured her I would.  I left the Davis house with no cash, a trunk full of gold and a broken heart.

Every time I see one of the airplanes spin, Iíll think of Mr. Davis and his family.  I think that would make him happy.