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Sunday, I finally went kite flying. It’s been a couple years, maybe more. I still feel the burn. I don’t remember it ever being that physical.

I wore the white Kung Fu top with green piping I was saving for just such an occasion, with my “noisy pants” Merry hates so much, that I discovered must be pulled up constantly if you try to run in them.

Anyway, it started off nicely, with the line stretching across Caz Park from creek to the road (my Chinese butterfly kite as a very low angle of atack, no matter how I adjust the string), but I couldn’t get a second run the whole hour or so after that. Nature was teasing me, with wind everywhere but the field. The tops of the trees by the basefield field (becoming occupied) were mad crazy; others were still as a whisper. A gust would come … and then leave my kite drifting to either the gentlest of landings or slamming head down.

I kept thinking maybe the kite preferred to be back on the wall, decorative. And this is what it must feel like to be a golfer on a bad day. I was persistent, but can’t say I didn’t swear or grunt in frustration. Patience was not a lesson I learned that day. I don’t think I’ll make this a hobby, at least not until I get a few other kites that might need less wind and have a better andle of attack so I can reach the flow above the trees.