Sunday Night, by MaryHelen Swanson : Itís kite-flying time, isnít it?

Posted 3/21/01

Sunday Night, by MaryHelen Swanson : Itís kite-flying time, isnít it?

I remember my days as a kid and the month of March. True, it was oft cold, but minus the snow, and the warming breezes that blew us into April were fine transports for a kite. Now, I was not a country kid, nor a city kid, but among those who grew up in the burgeoning suburbs of the early 50s. In fact, our house was the first home in the new housing development on the south end of White Bear Lake just off Bellaire Ave. While it was a financial struggle to own that new home in the burbs, my folks believed it would be a better life than we would face if we continued to live in the inner city of St. Paul at that time.

So, my growing up years, from eight to 18, were developed among sand burrs and corn fields that gave way, one acre at a time, to new homes springing out of large holes in the ground (basements) where cliff swallows brought forth young each spring. In time, the foundations were completed and four walls and a roof turned the farmerís fields into a neighborhood.

Before that, in those early years, there was lots and lots of room to fly a kite. And so we did. I have a vision of myself, documented with a Kodak Brownie, in a lightweight tan jacket, blue pedal pushers, brown and white saddle shoes and the corniest hat youíd ever want to imagine. But I was out having a great time flying my kite.

There is an awesome feeling that overtakes you as you run into the wind, pigtails flying, releasing the cotton string from the wooden spindle in your hand as the power of the winds are put to the test. Your heart soars as high as you hope your kite will as the winds lift it up, up, up and you hope with all your might that the right draft will grab your aircraft and send it high into the skies.
I was, on most occasions, successful.

There Iíd stand holding on to life itself, at least it felt as if this paper diamond was alive, tugging and pulling at the end of the string like a puppy being trained to the leash.

And up there against a canvas of blue, it was swaying this way and that, oblivious to the world below with its muddy, spring-thawed surface that caked on the bottom of our shoes.

My kite was never fancy - the $.10 variety from Woolworthís - with an enormous tail made of Dadís old shirt or moms worn out dress. The longer the better. It danced at the end of the kite like a cancan girl, kicking at the clouds in the bright spring sky.

Oh, sure, on occasion the wind wasnít cooperative and that beast at the end of your string would roll and dart through the air pulling away like a wild stallion lassoed for the very first time. Around and around, faster and faster, you could hear the swoooosh and crackling of the paper as it tangled itself around the string and spiraled straight toward the ground - crashing hard - more often than not breaking the cross bars so badly even Dadís black electrical tape wouldnít help. And then the day of fun was over.

But, if you could scrounge up another 10 pennies you could get a new kite and there was always tomorrow in the March days of my youth. Where, oh where, are the kite days of March 2001?