Of kites and guilt and forty-four

Harris Beach is kind to 44-year-old men. On a warm, clear day like this, people of all ages strut their stuff, from the beer gut-wielding sixty-something men to the tattooed, lean, hard-bodied fifty-something women. A handful of lookers are out there, too, but unlike my native Southern California, the babes here aren’t waxed, perfect, or plentiful. I can gawk without becoming despondent. It’s a good show.

Jake and I went to the annual Brookings-Harbor Kite Festival today, an event which invariably brings its own bad weather: low-lying fog and precious little wind. We bought a kite. Jake and I have a history with kites; we can’t fly them. With premonitions of frustration and tears (my own) I agreed with Jake that we should try again.

This time, I bought a kite which had (A) the words “easy to fly” on the label in the largest font possible, and (B) the biggest-assed tail I could find. This had to work.

Trouble is, if the wind isn’t there, it just ain’t there. We tried Azalea Park first with limited success. Then we went to Harris Beach, which is often so windy as to drive us away within fifteen minutes. Not so today. Inspired by the kite festival, a half dozen other kite fliers had come down, including two stunt-fliers and a couple of kids even greener than Jake and I. We all sucked. Badly.

Then the fog lifted, the sun shone down, and the wind picked up. We took turns flying, but in those first several nearly wind-free flights, we had to do a lot of running. By the time I tuckered out, the wind had picked up. I dozed on the hot sand while Jake had himself a few whopping huge flights. Every few minutes, I’d put my glasses back on to check him out. Jake’s kite sailed way the hell up there, better than anyone else’s on the beach. That’s my kid.

. . . Whose current favorite saying is “What the fuck,” but at least he uses it in a context-appropriate fashion.

***

I grew up in the Harry Chapin generation. Remember Cat’s in the Cradle? I can’t imagine any of you don’t know Cat’s in the Cradle, but I linked to the lyrics just the same. Nutshell: this kid’s dad never finds time for him, and when the kid grows up, he never finds time for his dad.

The song came out during one of our Voyage of the Damned years and the AM stations plastered it all over the airwaves. On and on and on, a daily radio experience, often two or three times a day. (Meanwhile, my dad was racking up the miles. He took pride in making the cross-country journey in six days or less.) It depressed the hell out of me, maybe because I knew Chapin was talking about me, maybe because I was and am a sucker for minor key songs.

I wonder how many other dads my age have Chapin’s song running through their brains. Guilt is a good motivator, as any Jew or Catholic will tell you. It gets me away from the computer on fine, clear weekend days, convinces me to spend time with the boy. I’m pretty sure I’m not the dad in Chapin’s song, so perhaps the cycle is broken.

D.

PS: Karen’s Avicularia metallica female ate her A. metallica mate. All that’s left in the cage is a bristly, black, walnut-sized man nugget and a fat happy female. Karen says this is a good thing — “She’s probably pregnant!” Soon we shall hear the pitter-patter of teensy furry feet.

Walnut, July 16, 2006. Category: Mishpucha (mi familia).

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