Spring is in full bloom, and for me that will always be the kite-flying time of year. Gazing up at the boundless blue firmament after endless days of gloom and rain, my mental soundtrack plays “Volare” as I’m officially on alert for a conducive breeze. It’s pure joy to watch a kite rip though the sky, knowing that you’re engaged in a silent ceremony with the forces of nature.
Truth be told, I don’t get out there that much, because kite flying takes time—not only to send one skyward but to reel it back in. It also takes the ability to shut off the steady stream of cares and obligations rifling through my adult brain. With recent legislation, getting high as a kite has now become a much easier option than searching for that elusive open field where worries disappear.
I loved flying kites as a kid, especially the classic paper two-stick kind, made by the Hi-Flier company of Decatur, Illinois. I remember sending away for a very slick pistol-grip kite string winding spool, and when it arrived postmarked from Decatur, I thought it came from the most exotic locale in the world. To a 10-year-old boy who never ventured far from his suburban home in western New York, the mysteries of Decatur held more intrigue than such far-flung destinations as Lisbon or Shanghai. It still does.
Looking back, I recall one airborne episode in particular. The clocks had just turned, and Daylight Savings Time allowed me one more precious hour to indulge in my flying fix after homework and dinner. On that day like no other, the kite rose effortlessly, never once wanting to head downward. It did so as if to spite me, because it was almost time for Rowan and Martin’s “Laugh-In”, and I was not about to miss a minute.
While beautiful downtown Burbank beckoned, and my Hi-Flier stubbornly aloft on its perfect journey, I hatched an idea. I would stuff the spool in the mailbox, close it, and wake up the next morning as if nothing had changed. Not a chance. With the breeze dying down at night, I faced the harsh reality that my kite was not only no longer aloft, it was nowhere to be found. And so went my personal Ben Franklin experiment.
Telling someone to “go fly a kite” belongs to another era, when people drank sarsaparilla while listening to the gramophone. I don’t believe anyone has actually used this figure of speech in decades, which is precisely why I’d like to resurrect it. Essentially, it’s a quaint, less offensive way of saying “go f*&# yourself”, a sentiment that crosses my mind several times a day.
Right now, I’d like to tell the entire world to go fly a kite, and though it’s naïve to think so, I wish the world would take me up on it. That’s because it’s impossible to be angry when you’re flying one. Instead, we get the pointless atrocity of war and unhinged partisan vitriol, stoked by the nonstop media that consumes our lives. It all makes as much sense as chasing the wind. I’d rather let a kite do that.
