And today, here sat Uncle Einar, fustering under the tree, grown impatient and unkind; not because this was his desire, but because after the long wait, his night-flight sense had never returned. Here he sat despondently, resembling a green summer sun-parasol, abandoned for the season by reckless vacationers who once sought refuge under its spread shadow. Was he to sit here forever, afraid to fly, save as a clothes-drier for his good wife, or a fanner of children on hot August noons? Ye gods! Think!
His one occupation, flight, running family errands, quicker than storms, faster than telegraphs. Like a boomerang he’d whickled over hills and valleys and like a thistle landed.
But now? Bitterness! His wings quivered behind him.
“Papa, fan us,” said his small daughter.
The children stood before him, looking up at his dark face.
“No,” he said.
“Fan us, Papa,” said the honorable new son.
“It’s a cool day, there’ll soon be rain,” said Uncle Einar.
“There’s a wind blowing, Papa. The wind’ll blow the clouds way,” said the second, very small son.
“Will you come watch us, Papa?”
“Run on, run on,” Einar told them. “Let Papa brood.”
Again he thought of old skies, night skies, cloudy skies, all kinds of skies. Was it to be his fate to scull pastures in fear of being seen breaking wing on the silo, or cracking up on a kindling fence? Gah!
“Come watch us, Papa,” said the girl.
“We’re goin’ to the hill,” said one boy. “With all the kids from town.”
Uncle Einar chewed his knuckles. “What hill’s that?”
“The Kite Hill, of course!” they sang together.
Now he examined the three.
They each held large paper kites against their gasping bosoms, their faces bathed with anticipation and animal glowing. In their small fingers were balls of white twine. From the kites, colored red, blue, yellow, and green, hung appendages of cotton and silk strips.
“We’ll fly our kites! Come see!”
“No,” he said. “I’d be seen!”
“You could hide and watch from the woods. We want you to see.”
“The kites?” he said.
“Made ’em ourselves. Just because we know how.”
“How do you know how?”
“You’re our papa!” was the instant cry. “That’s how!”
He looked from one to the second to the third. “A kite festival, is it?”
“Yes, sir!”
“I’m going to win,” said the girl.
“No, me!” the boys contradicted. “Me, me!”