"In Like a Lion, Out Like a Lamb"

It was March first, and the winds were wild and uncontrollable. Patio furniture was blown all around as if it were weightless. I smiled remembering Henry Wadsworth's thoughts on the wind:  

"I hear the wind among the trees 
Playing the celestial symphonies; 
I see the branches downward bent, 
Like keys of some great instrument."    

Today was one of those blustery days. With fond memories I remember the windy days of March in my childhood. My dad asked me if I would like him to make me a kite, and we could spend the afternoon watching it sail through air. I was thrilled as a small child. as I had never flown a kite before. 

He gathered the newspaper, glue, some rags that would become the tail, and sticks to hold the form of the kite together. And of course, string that would be the primitive navigational system to keep it in the air. 

Upon completion of the construction of my new kite, he, mama and I got into the car and drove down to the open fields where nothing but pecan trees dwelled. We lived on base, and I had never been to this area that was farther away than I was allowed to venture. It was a warm and sunny March day in 1956. The old pecan trees were budding their leaves with the declaration of spring, and the branches were dancing in unison with the gusty winds blowing them back and forth. 

I didn't know how to set in motion, the sailing of the kite as this was my first experience. Daddy held onto the string, and began running as he gave way to more and more of the string. The powerful March wind grabbed the kite, and the kite sailed higher and higher into the air, powered by the currents. Up over the tops of the pecan trees the kite sailed, gliding nicely embraced by the wind. Laughing and clapping my hands with the joy and amazement that is a gift of childhood, I grew impatient because I wanted to take over the delight of guiding the kite through the sky.

 Daddy warned me about the tautness of the string, and how important it was to keep the kite in the air. I was sure I would manage just fine.....it looked so smooth and easy. It was the wind doing all the work, so it appeared to my four year old mind. Mama reminded Daddy this was all about ME experiencing flying a kite for the fist time, not him. With a word of warning, Daddy carefully released the taut string into my small hands, warning me to hold tightly to it, and to guide the kite giving it just enough freedom to keep it sailing through the wind. I thought it would be easy. I thought I could manage this kite as it sailed into what seemed to me, the clouds. Within minutes I watched in horror, as my kite began spiraling downward. Daddy tried to rectify the situation, but it had gotten too far out of control, and my sweet, graceful, spiraling kite came crashing down towards the ground. Tears blurred my vision, streaming down my face. I just didn't know it would be so difficult. 

Mama reassured me that we could do this again on another windy day. There was no consultation in my broken heart. Daddy told me that when the pecans ripened on the trees in the fall, we would get a bucket and we would return to the fields again, and gather pecans together. That was some comfort, and I loved the huge open space of the fields.

Mama began to usher me towards the car, as the sun began setting and the warmth of the sun gave way to the chill of an early "pre-spring" evening. It was time to go home and begin preparing our supper. After spending the better part of an afternoon out in the fresh air and mildly warm sunshine, I realized that I was ready for supper. 

I don't think after this first time, I've ever flown another kite. I do remember going back to the fields with daddy, large white bucket in hand, and spending a warm "Indian-summer's" evening gathering all the pecans we could find. They tasted awfully good in mama's homemade fudge, in a sugared pecan sauce Mama made to top off vanilla ice cream, and in the fruitcakes my grandmother made and "cured" with bourbon for a month or so, in the winter air inside her garage. The moist and rich cake was cut and served on Christmas Eve, for as long as I can remember.

Each windy March that arrives, heralding the hope of spring each year, takes me back to that especially blustery, kite-flying day so many years ago, in the field of pecan trees.