The Best Day — Ever!

“If a child is to keep alive his inborn sense of wonder, he needs the companionship of at least one adult who can share it, rediscovering with him the joy, excitement, and mystery of the world we live in.”

― Rachel Carson, The Sense of Wonder

C. Chisare

There I was — all nine years of me — skinned knees, pigtails and rolled-up jeans. My grass-stained PF Flyers slapping against the sidewalk as I raced up the hill to my elementary school’s first-ever Kite Flying Contest. My sweaty hands tightly gripped the cross beams of my brand-new American Beauty, Hi-Flier kite and I was eager to test the limits of it’s height and speed to win this most prestigious of school contests.

My 3rd-grade classmates and I had schemed and daydreamed of this day; challenging one another with that one question that was on all of our kid minds, “Who’s gonna win?” And now, that the day had finally arrived in all it’s sparkling glory; my own budding competitive spirit had no other thought than to win the highly coveted prize of FIVE WHOLE DOLLARS!

Does anybody know how many Bit-O-Honeys, Pixie Stix, Milky Ways or ice cream cones FIVE WHOLE DOLLARS could buy? No one knows! It’s one of the conundrums of childhood; but I knew, that I alone, would solve this greatest of mysteries and forever bask in all the glory and honor among my classmates that must surely follow such a conquest.

A week before the competition, our ragtag crew of 9-year-olds in various stages of dirt encrustation and drunk on grape Kool-Aid, jostled for position as we lined up at our local five-and-dime in the feverish hope of getting our hands on a brand-new, high flying kite. We dropped our scrounged nickels and dimes on the worn wooden counter, and clutched our coveted purchases close, daydreaming of winning a prize so astronomical that the very name of the winner would be forevermore enshrined within the hallowed halls of academia.

As I crested the hill on that long awaited day and looked out over the playground, my young heart leaped at the splendor and color of hundreds of kites — some already aloft and others being held earth-bound by their immense tails. Parents and teachers milled among my worthy competitors, clipboards and coffee cups in hand, gathering names in the competition.

Quickly, I checked-in with my teacher, Mrs. Taylor, and hurried to my chosen flying ground — the longest hill where the wind forever gusted. Masterfully, I checked my licked index finger against the wind, determining from which direction my American Beauty would launch. I held my breath, counted to three, tossed the kite skyward, and… Swoosh! My kite took off like a hawk, it’s multi-colored tail swishing in the wind as it caught the updraft, lifting it higher and higher.

I could not believe what my eyes were seeing. My excitement knew no bounds as I let out more string and my kite continued to lift… soaring higher and then even more… up towards those places that no child has ever gone before… moving up, then down and circling as the thermals caught… the string tugging in my hands as it’s tail fluttered in the wind.

I was hypnotized. I was spellbound. I was under the mystical forces of the wind and altitude and all of the unknowns to childhood. My kite and I had become one and the same, rising above the earth, reaching new heights, floating off into the stratosphere and sailing towards the “second star to the right”, towards Neverland. I was soaring with my kite but my sneakers bound me to the playground by gravity.

As the noon sun began to warm the playground and the wind began to die, I noticed that many of my competitors’ kites had begun their death dives toward the ground, eliminating them from the competition. However, a handful of my classmates were still in the running and their kites were almost as high as my red, white and blue beauty; but mine was still the highest flying among all of the other kites and life was indeed, good. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing and presumptuously, I could taste the first thing I would buy with my winnings — a big chocolate ice cream cone — and if, and only if, I was feeling generous, maybe half a scoop for my sister.

It was then, in my ice cream reverie, that I noticed a familiar figure walking across the school yard… a man with a pipe and thick, gray hair… a man whose glasses glinted in the sun as he moved among my classmates and fellow competitors. I knew immediately it was the one adult I loved more than my collection of Nancy Drew books and desiccated birds’ nests — my grandfather — and he was keeping his promise to help me win the competition.

He waved and ambled over to me, hands stuffed deeply into his pockets. Taking the pipe from his mouth and offering me a mint from those pockets, he looked up at my kite and smiled, “That’s some kite you have! I don’t think you need my help, at all!”

What unspeakable joy flooded my childish heart! He had kept his promise to me, his oldest grandchild. He had decided in his grown-up world of grown-up things that I was more important than anything else that morning; and his words of praise made me beam by widest, tooth-missing smile.

He took the Hi-Flier’s spool from my hands and began to let out the kite even more… up and up it went until it was only a faint blue and red star among the wispy clouds, reaching towards the unknown.

I couldn’t tell you how long we were there that day; but the sky softened toward late afternoon gold as we continued to take turns with the kite; letting the string out just a little bit more, catching it as it lost a thermal, sharing dreams, his pink Canada mints, ginger ale and ice cream sandwiches; the competition long forgotten.

I did not win that astronomical prize of FIVE WHOLE DOLLARS that day. I don’t remember who won. Instead, on that wonderful day when I was only 9 years old and the wind gods smiled upon that hill and adult hearts were large, I won a much bigger prize — time and praise from someone whom I respected and loved with all of my childish heart. It was and will always be the best day ever!

Post Scriptium: My Best Day Ever was over 60 years ago, in 1958. A time when children were as innocent as lambs in newly fallen snow. We dreamed of being teachers and firemen and police officers. Our fathers went to work and our mothers were always home to nurse skinned knees and hurt feelings. Doors were left unlocked at night and birthdays were always celebrated with cake, ice cream and lots of candles. There was a feeling of horizons being wide open to the possibilities of what the new, coming decade would bring as we watched the first launch into space on televisions rolled into our classrooms on carts. It was an extraordinary time to be alive.

This small story of sunny skies and kites and a grandparent showing up is a cherished moment in my heart and always will be; but there is so much more to consider. The remembrance of this best day from my childhood has caused me to reflect on my own grand-parenting skills and wonder what, if anything, will my grandchildren remember about me?

Will they remember someone who was so busy doing big-people things that they didn’t have time to lower themselves to a child’s level; to whisper unspeakable joys and adventure into the ear of the child; to catch the slipstreams of life and soar with the eagles. Will they remember me, as my husband remembers his grandmother, as someone who was stern and unloving; in other words, children should be seen and not heard.

I have the luxury of time to pursue and develop those things that I have always loved… reading good books, writing and the love of language and words. I’ve come to realize that this luxury of time, this embarrassment of the riches of time, additionally has plenty to teach me in my connection with those little people who inhabit my heart.

A simple story from my own childhood has shown me that it’s not those things that we give our children or grandchildren that will be remembered; but those things, those experiences that we share… showing up to root them on… sharing our dreams and our lives with those little people… laying good foundations in the hope that one day they might remember those special times just as I remember my best day ever with the one adult I loved the most — my grandfather.

Watercolor illustration: Frank M. Lea, 1947

Tell your children about it, and let your children tell their children, and their children the next generation. (Joel 1:3)