One of my favorite memories of my dad occurred in the late 1970s. He was young then, only in his mid-thirties. It’s how I like to remember him, slim, sinewy, arms amply filling the sleeves of the t-shirts he favored. Back then, he still had that air of carelessness that had pockmarked his youth. He had yet to be worn down by life.
He had taken me with him into town for a reason I cannot remember. We ended up at the Western Auto in downtown Canton, and on a whim he bought me a kite. Dad was impulsive like that. The kite was almost bigger than me with a giant eagle imprinted on the cheap plastic. Dad bought extra string and a fancy u-shaped handle that allowed the string to be unwound with just a flick of the wrist.
As we drove home, the kite rattled in the wind from the back seat. Outside, a beautiful March day had unfolded with the deepest blue sky I had ever remembered seeing and a stern breeze that served as a precursor for the inevitable storms that would come as the South transitioned from spring to summer. Growing up, I loved days like this before the dreaded heat and humidity stamped out the will to live until the first chill of October.
When we returned home, we slipped out the door and walked to a wide-open field near our house where Dad explained how to launch and fly a kite. At first, he pantomimed it, but then, he started at the bottom of the hill and ran with the kite above his head until it slowly glided skyward. He flicked his wrist to release more string, and the strong breeze buffeted the kite until it ascended further and further into the sky. I watched in amazement as the ball of string shrunk. I imagined that the kite was as high as an airplane, at least a small airplane flying very low.
Eventually, he reeled in the kite and gave it to me to fly. I tried to mimic his movements, but the kite only flew up a few yards before it nose-dived into the ground. Each crack of the plastic frame into the ground made me wince. I thought I had broken the kite. Finally, I was able to catch a strong current, and the kite lifted into the air and sailed higher as I haphazardly unwound the string. The pull of the kite almost lifted me off my feet as it reached the end of the line. I held on tightly with both hands hoping that I didn’t lose my kite or get swept away by the wind.
We stood there, side by side, watching the kite jerk and flutter in the stiff breeze against the backdrop of the deep blue sky. Dad didn’t say much other than comment about how great a day it was to fly a kite. I could have stood there for a long time soaking in the warm sun as the wind lapped my face, enjoying time with my dad.
I didn’t understand it then, what it meant to be with him in those most mundane of moments. It would be decades before I could appreciate where he was in life, what was about to happen. Some lessons in life can’t be taught. They have to be experienced, hard-earned. Looking back, it’s easy to pick the moments that really mattered, to belabor them with the benefit of experience that didn’t exist then. Perspectives shift as we get older and alter the memories we have in subtle ways. Perhaps these memories become something they really weren’t. Perhaps we need them more than ever when those we loved are no longer with us.