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There’s a park near where I grew up, with a grassy hill where the wind never seems to stop blowing. We always called it Kite Hill, though I have no idea if that’s an official name or not.
In first grade, we made kites out of sticks and tissue paper. They didn’t fly particularly well. But in about fourth grade, there was a kite craze, with kite stores popping up everywhere. Special kites of all shapes and sizes. Special kite string. Picking out just the right kite was a serious project!
We’d pile in the car and trek out to Kite Hill to fly our treasures, feeling the wind tug and pull, trying to yank the roll of string out of our hands.
The funny thing was, if it succeeded, the kite would maybe blow off for a bit, but eventually it would flutter down to the ground. It was the anchor of the string, grounded to the earth in our hands, that allowed our kites to fly and swoop and dominate the sky.
