John B. Marek is a storyteller with dirt under his nails who weaves tales inspired by a lifetime immersed in nature. His insightful essays and award-winning fiction delve into the complexities of sustainable living, the heart of rural communities and the thrill of outdoor adventure. You can find more of his writing at johnbmarek.com.
The onset of spring, for me as a child, was not marked by the first robin or the budding of trees, but by the appearance of kites at Hagel’s Market. Displayed in a vertical box near the registers, they were symbols of possibility, of freedom and of the simple joys that came with the changing of the seasons.
There were two types of kites: the diamond and the box. Each came in a variety of colors, their paper skins wrapped around balsa wood sticks, waiting to take flight. The paper itself was unremarkable, not unlike the butcher paper Johnny Twarek used to wrap cuts of meat in the back of the store. But to me, it was magical. The diamond kites cost a quarter and the box kites were around 50 cents. For a kid with a few coins saved up, this was an affordable adventure.
The process of assembling the kite was half the fun. Carefully unrolling the paper, inserting the grooved ends of the sticks into the string along the edges and tying on a tail made from a discarded pair of my mother’s pantyhose felt like rocket science. My father’s fishing line, wound around a spool, served as a tether. The anticipation was intoxicating. I would imagine the kite soaring high above, dancing in the wind, free from the constraints of gravity and the mundane world below.
But as with many childhood activities, the reality rarely lived up to the fantasy. The wind was a fickle collaborator. Too strong, and the kite would be shredded in seconds, its paper body no match for the gusts. Too weak, and it would stubbornly refuse to leave the ground, dragging pathetically behind me as I ran across the lot. And then there were the trees – our yard was full of them, their branches like hungry mouths waiting to devour any kite that dared to fly too close. To avoid these “kite-eating trees,” I had to venture across the street to a vacant lot, where the open space offered a better chance of success.
Even with all these challenges, there was something deeply satisfying about flying a kite. On those rare days when the wind was just right, and the kite caught the breeze, climbing higher and higher into the sky, I felt a sense of accomplishment that was hard to put into words. It wasn’t just about the kite – it was about the effort, the patience and the joy of seeing something I had built with my own hands take flight.
Near the end of my kite-flying years, I thought I had discovered the ultimate upgrade: a “high-tech” inflatable kite. It seemed like a marvel of modern engineering – no sticks, no paper, just a sleek, inflatable frame that promised durability and ease of use. I was convinced this was the future of kite flying. But, like so many things that seem too good to be true, it never quite lived up to the hype. The inflatable frame was prone to leaks and the kite had a tendency to collapse mid-flight, tumbling back to earth in a sad, deflated heap. It was a reminder that sometimes, the old ways are the best ways.
Over the years, I also experimented with the kites’ close cousin: the giant styrofoam glider. These were cool, at least for the first half hour. They soared gracefully through the air, their wings catching the wind like miniature airplanes. But inevitably, the wings would refuse to stay on, popping off mid-flight and sending the glider into a nosedive. What started as a thrilling spectacle often ended in frustration, with me scouring the ground for lost styrofoam pieces.
Looking back, those kites and gliders were more than just toys. They were a lesson in perseverance, a reminder that some of life’s greatest joys come from simple, uncomplicated things. They taught me to appreciate the process as much as the outcome, and to find beauty in the anticipation as much as in the execution.
So, go fly a kite. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s hard. Not because it’s guaranteed to work, but because it might not. And when it does, when that diamond or box kite catches the wind and soars into the sky, you’ll understand why, for a kid like me, those kites at Hagel’s Market were more than just harbingers of spring – they were harbingers of possibility.