Let's Go Fly A Kite...

August 2007

We’re getting into the summertime home stretch, and if you think you’ve experienced everything in the way of entertainment, dining, shopping, and fun in South Jersey, I have only one thing to say: Go fly a kite.

I mean it. Go fly a kite.

Some of my best memories involve me as a little girl, my father at the Jersey shore, the beach after dinner, and a kite.

My dad was a big man, at least in terms of his presence. At not quite six feet, he wasn’t particularly tall, but he was broad shouldered, with a big, booming voice that let us know he was coming way before he entered a room.

Most of the time, I was afraid of my father. An only child raised by strict, German parents, he had definite ideas about his own four children’s behavior. We rarely deviated from his expectations because to do so would bring certain retribution. It wasn’t so much that he hit us, though in those days, a smack on the bum wasn’t viewed as a form of child abuse.

Rather, it was his voice.

My father could rattle walls with his voice. It had a quality, a timbre, which shook me to my bones when he was angry. And he was frequently angry.

My dad grew up believing that the way to raise good kids was to always keep them “on their toes.” And that meant that he yelled. A lot. The infraction didn’t have to be huge, in fact, it was usually minor. We were too scared to really cross him.

Regardless, his knee-jerk response was lots and lots of yelling. All of which had the unfortunate effect of causing his children to fear him, keeping us walking on eggshells to avoid upsetting him and summoning that terrifying voice.

But there was one week each year when all of that changed. And that was the week of our annual trek to the Jersey Shore for our summer vacation.

During that week, my father was transformed. Gone was the strict disciplinarian, and in his place was simply a dad, happy to play with his children, indulging them in annual, sacred traditions like long, languid days at the beach, nights on the boards, and kite flying.

The kite flying was truly special, because Mom stayed back at the house, cleaning up dinner dishes, while Dad took the four of us (even though we had all had our showers) back to the beach.

We giggled and shrieked as we ran onto the sand, marveling at its coolness, when only a few hours ago we had to skip our way over its white heat to the water. Dad dutifully unpacked the kite, allowing us all a hand in putting it together. Then, taking turns, we each held onto the string and ran for our lives while Dad held the kite up to catch the breeze.

When we tired of kite flying, the five of us walked along the shore line, awed as my dad somehow managed to look at the sand and know just where to unearth a huge clam or a scuttling sand crab, digging his big hands down deep and seemingly pulling them up like magic. To this day, I still can’t duplicate the feat, though I tried mightily with my own kids.

We ended the day with ice cream, walking home hand in hand with our father, each other, and our kite, just another happy family down the shore.

It’s hard to imagine running out of things to do at the Jersey Shore. But if you ever think you have, go fly a kite.