Aurora Monster Models

When I was a kid growing up in the early 60's the name "Aurora" was more than just a brand name on a cardboard box; it was the first true chapter of my life. "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" was the first kit I purchased and it changed my life forever. For ninety-eight cents, one could purchase these marvelous kits from store shelves across America. The sum sounds like nothing now, but in 1963, ninety-eight cents was a small fortune.

It was in the fall of that year that my ceaseless love affair with Aurora models began. I remember the chilly east winds, and occasional blasts of rain that kept us prisoner inside. The latter days of November were a frigid prelude to the coming winter. Newer and more exciting variations of indoor fun were in short supply. Boredom was my new nemesis and became the biggest threat to my sanity. I was eight years old and in the process of negotiating the third grade. On this blustery November day, I had the opportunity to visit our local Pay N’ Save store at Eastport Plaza.

During this period we kids had a standing allowance of two dollars a month, and I’d already spent the most of mine. As I browsed the toy shelves, I came across a section with model cars. On a shelf above the cars were a series of absolutely incredible monster models! I never saw anything like them in my entire life. That first encounter was like a scene from an old movie complete with the sounds of a heavenly choir and singular rays of sunlight shining only on these magnificent boxes.

I'd never imagined that anything like them could have possibly existed. What genius could have been responsible for such wonder? They were altogether beautiful, haunting and they stirred my emotions. I was in the midst of a renaissance of plastic model marvel. Each box featured a stirring image of the creature inside rendered in plastic and entombed in cellophane.

The muffled rattling of plastic pieces like old bones in a cardboard crypt were far too beautiful for eight-year old comprehension. The sound was a mysterious symphony to my ears. The look of each box, with its narrow design and strikingly rendered artwork was alluring. The magnificent artful portraits of the creatures inside were testimonials to the beauty of models and the sheer ecstasy of monsters.

The paintings that adorned these boxed and wrapped coffins were beyond mortal description. They were vivid and colorful. The artwork kept me spellbound and terrified all at once! I remember that one was almost better than the next, and the fact that there were so many of them, was beyond the sublime. The coming New Year promised to be a great one, with all of my future allowances already spent. Mom fiddled with her accounts in order to wrangle model glue and paints as well.

I remember really loving the instruction sheets. They were an experience all their own. The drawings were far different from the paintings on the boxes. They resembled the actual model pieces more than the box art did. I also really enjoyed the fact that they gave a paragraph of history about the monster that was being assembled.There was a black and white reproduction of the box art. This seemed natural, for a good majority of the world--especially on television--seemed black and white.

I eventually collected them all. Over the years, throughout the sixties and into the early seventies, I re-bought these kits just to build them again. As the boxes rested on my dresser, the images bore themselves like tapeworms into the recesses of my memories. To this day they remain one the most respected and revered kits in the history of plastic models, and fetch reasonably high prices for originals. Though the originals have been extinct since the seventies, replicas are issued and re-issued for random short releases. The Aurora legend indeed lives on forever.

As for me, the Aurora legend was never more profound, or full of reverent beauty, as it was on that cold November day in 1963.