The Flyer of Kites

There were days when we knew our limits were governed only by the length of the string that bound our creation to our own hand.

When I was a boy, I liked nothing better than building and flying kites. I ripped bows from the scrub trees that grew around my house, and covered them with newspaper and scotch tape. The tail I made from strips of old bedsheets, tethering the whole thing to my hand with a ball of grimy white cotton string.

We’d launch right in the street outside our tract home in the suburbs of southwest Houston, Texas. Spindly trees, parked cars, fences, and bikes were our obstacles, and when the wind took hold, so did we. I remember that feeling of a wild wind capturing my homemade contraption, tearing it loose from my grip as the string stretched from my hold to another, bowing to gravity as it led to the sky.

There were days when we knew our limits were governed only by the length of the string that bound our creation to our own hand. But there were other days when the puff of glory was followed by silent stillness, then a sickening limpness which could only be addressed by a rapid reeling in of the kite before it crashed back to earth.

I don’t think we ever launched our kites thinking it would be less than a great afternoon, even if it turned out not to be. Kite flyers are optimists and opportunists. We flew the kites in the conditions presented and had fun, no matter what. I remember this time in my life so vividly because most days were good days. I wonder: were the days good because I flew the kites, or did I fly the kites because the days were good?

I had forgotten how much I loved flying kites for much of my life. But like all great loves, you never truly forget.

Despite a positive disposition toward flying kites, sometimes days were just too blustery. The string could snap, sending my homemade kite fluttering helplessly away over the neighborhood houses and streets. Then a new adventure would start — kite recovery! Our first job was simply to watch the kite fly away from us for as long as we could to see which way it was floating and how far. Sometimes we would scramble up on car trunks and even house roofs to get a better view. Then, the chase was on! A pack of barefoot boys speeding away on our bikes in pursuit of my distressed kite might resemble a modern-day fox hunt, or at least the start of one. When we arrived at where we thought the kite might have landed, the investigation began in earnest. As often as not, kites ended up wrapped around telephone poles, or in tree limbs (sort of an “ashes to ashes” finish for them). However, on occasion, they made it to the ground, usually in someone’s wooden fence enclosed back yard. We thought nothing of hopping over those fences, walking around in our neighbors’ backyards unannounced, and retrieving our kites.

My favorite kite-flying days of all were those with soft but steady breeze which allowed launch and sustained flight with little effort. No need for running down the street— you could just toss the kite into the air, a puff of wind would catch it, and the rest was magical flight. Achievement of maximum altitude was the goal. In kids’ parlance, this was to “let all the string out.” Some days, we could even perform the delicate operation of connecting a second roll of string to the first, while in flight, so double altitude would be achieved. If all conditions were right, we could attach the string to a stake in the ground, lay on our backs in the tall summer grass, and just admire the view: the puffy clouds rolling through a blue sky, the occasional airplane flying so high we could not hear it, and of course, that now tiny, silly speck amongst of the sky’s grandeur—our homemade kite.

If only I could approach everything I do as a flyer of kites.

I would build with modest materials, launch with optimism, accept all flying conditions, gamely chase my failures until I discovered the results of the crash, and most of all, revel in those rare days when the kite flew itself, achieved maximum altitude, and my only role was enjoying that moment. Though those days seem like a long, long time ago, I still remember the feel of the tug on the string and those flights of joy.