Flying my Kite with Mr. Clarkson

It was about mid-March of 1952 when I was 8½ years old in Portland Maine. There were a few patches of snow in the field behind my house.  The wind was blowing, and I could see two kites in the sky over by the woods. My grandmother had given me a quarter the previous weekend when I visited her and my step grandfather, Jack. Twenty-five cents was just enough money to buy a kite and some string at the corner store. As I left the store with my rolled-up kite and string, I headed toward home. I was passing the Clarkson house on Brighten Avenue when Mr. Clarkson called to me from his porch where he and Mrs. Clarkson would sit and watch people go by. Mr. Clarkson was a retired railroad engineer, and he always had interesting railroad stories to tell. I walked over to his house, and he came down the steps to meet me. He commented on my kite and wanted to know where I was planning to fly it. I told him there was a field in back of my house that was perfect for kite flying. He asked to see the kite. As he looked it over, he had a glint in his eye that said he was remembering the days when he flew his own kite. He asked if I would wait for him while he went to get his coat. When he came back, he was carrying some pieces of cloth. He said that “WE” would need a tail for the kite. He then asked if he could come with me and watch me fly my kite. I told him I would enjoy that. My dad was usually working, so he didn’t have a lot of time to spend with me. The only time I remember flying a kite with my dad was when I was four years old, and we went to Deering Park in Portland.

As we walked toward my house, he told me he used to make his own kites and enter them in contests when he was my age. He talked about the type of string he used on his kites. Mr. Clarkson said he sometimes used very fine fishing line to fly them. When we got to my house, he showed me the best way to attach string to the wood supports on the kite. He then had me tie the guide string at a special position on the support string so I could guide my kite more efficiently. We tested different lengths of tails until we got the “perfect tail”. Mr. Clarkson said he lived in France when he was young. He told me that the French called their kites, Milan royals, or red kites. Mr. Clarkson said that there is a bird of prey in Europe that the kites mimicked. He mentioned that many years ago only members of the royal court in Paris and London would fly kites.

Once we got the kite in the air, we both took turns holding onto the string and feeling the pull of the kite as the wind grabbed hold of it.  Mr. Clarkson said I should be able to hear the faint flapping of the tail in the wind. He revealed that he couldn’t pick up the sound of it now because of his poor hearing. I listened hard, and I could faintly hear the sound of the tail making a snapping noise. As Mr. Clarkson held the string, he said it felt like he had a fish trying to get loose on the other end of the line. He gave me the line so I could feel it pulling. I didn’t tell him, but I had felt that same feeling many times before. I just know he wanted me to have the same experience that he had when he was my age. He told me to listen for a whistling sound when the wind picks up and makes the string taught. I had often heard it before. He suggested that I close my eyes every once in a while, so I could make-believe I was actually flying in the wind.

After a while we hauled the kite in while winding up the string on a cardboard toilet paper roll. He thanked me for letting him help fly my kite and told me that he had a great time. As he walked away, he didn’t seem as old as when we first started out from his house. I was glad I could make him happy with just a simple kite. From that time on, whenever I flew my kites, I would look back on the nice time I had experiencing kite flying with Mr. Clarkson.