It was a cold late October day in 1977 when all my woods were filled with flakes of drifting snow falling on the now faded leaves.
It was a perfect afternoon to start an indoor project…or perhaps finish one I had not worked on since the snows left last April.
In the back of my closet were several unfinished ship models that were now a bit dusty and should get the first attention.
Sitting back on my bed cross-legged, pinched into a corner with my pillows behind me, I pulled the model’s cardboard box under my chin.
It was filled with small bits of rigging, sailcloth and ship spars waiting to be sorted and glued into position.
I held up the ship’s hull and scanned the deck looking for any hint of glue bubbles or other irregularities that would have to be sanded or carved away with an exacto blade.
My imagination ran away a bit as I thought about the real ship it was modeled after. I could see it crashing through an ocean voyage on a mission to save the empire.
After all, you don’t build a model because it’s a model. There has to be a story to go along with it.
If there isn’t a story, a model is just an object or a project.
To me, this was bringing a smaller version of that mighty ship back to life. When it was finished I was going to create a small naval battle for it to achieve new glory.
From my window I could see the wind carrying millions of flakes of snow in an almost sideways flight. But here in my room under the cozy reading lamp I was immune to the cold.
I filled and glued and clamped piece by piece each miniature cannon, sail, and longboat until my model rivaled its namesake.
When finished, the glue was in a tacky state and too frail for me to put the ship into action.
I turned the box over and set my finished prize to dry. Meanwhile, I curled up with the small book that came with the ship that detailed its history and gave the story behind the ship’s success. Then I fell into a short nap.
I dreamt I was aboard that tiny vessel fighting pirates, Frenchmen, and storms. My Adirondack woods were far from my dreams even though they were just twenty yards outside my window.
I still have a few projects to work on each year when the weather becomes too cold to go out and play. I pull them from the depths of the closet or basement to occupy my hands and my mind while I wait for spring to arrive.
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller, lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com