Flying a kite: one thing missing

I realized recently that, since moving to New York in July, I've turned into the sort of person I hate -- the kind who never leaves the city. It's easy not to, of course, especially without a car, but still it's not exactly a desirable condition.

So, whatever problems I have, personally or otherwise, with my job (my last week starts tomorrow!), I've got to give them credit: they do the right thing by taking the students up to hike in Rockland County. We went on Friday, and while it wasn't the most rural undertaking (heck, you could pretty much see the Tappan Zee Bridge from the parking lot), it was still worthwhile. The leaves had just reached that yellowy-changed stage, and the quiet made some of the girls downright nervous. I taught a few of them how to make whistles out of acorn caps, which would pretty much be the worst idea ever if they had regular access to acorn caps in Brooklyn.

It was funny to see some of the students out in the woods -- while they're, in many ways, more equipped for life in the city than I am, they're at a total loss in a less-urban environment. Many of them worried that the earthworms we saw would bite them, and one girl in particular told me she was worried about getting eaten by a deer. (No amount of reassurance from me had any effect.) That said, they also appreciated a lot of woodsy things I forget. Every leaf was a source of excitement, and while they worried that pretty much everything might be poison ivy (or just plain poison), they also wanted to know what everything was. What's its name? How does it grow? How many are there? I know I didn't ask those questions when I was growing up, though we could dither about how much that was my regular exposure to things a little outdoorsier and how much was my being a total indoor kid.

Next up, today, was flying last week's box kite, which had been languising on the highest shelf in my house in order to avoid the advances of Charlie the cat. Keys in hand (this time), we got to Prospect Park only to realize we'd forgotten one critical thing.

Wind.

Despite our best efforts (and despite taking up a field that may well have been better used by the high school boys nearby who were totally trying to play football right on top of us, I would describe the kite flying as . . . spotty. Also, as you can see from the picture, I'm kind of a spazzy runner.

I'm pretty sure, honest, that the kite would have flown if there were even the tiniest bit of a breeze. On the few occasions there was the faintest rustling of leaves, I managed to get the kite to take off a little bit, but I think it would require what one might call a blustery sort of day to get in much really good flying. Besides, it's made of dowels and twine, neither of which are known for their lightness/gravity-defying properties, so it's possible that even a lighter kite would have had more success today.

In one last-ditch effort, we went up to our building's roof, where disaster struck. The kite finally remembered, hey, I'm made out of wood, string, and waxed paper, and I've spent the afternoon falling down to the ground. And, in one soul-stirring moment, the paper ripped and the kite was done for the day. (I've left out the photographic evidence of this very moment -- it's far, far too heartbreaking.)

I do think the kite will be flyable, with a few minor repairs. Right now, it's time to focus on replacing the waxed paper. Some kitemakers recommend newsprint or even garbage bags instead, but I'm not sure. Any experts? I'm hoping to make a final kite-flying expedition by Tuesday. (Dear Tuesday, Please, please, please be windy. Love, Emily.)