Memorial Day started out kind of slow. I snuck into the office to write. My daughter vegged out on cartoons. Until my father suddenly appeared with a kite.
We hadn't been kite flying in ages. Suddenly, the house was a blur of action. Kite flying. It was contagious. We couldn't get out the door fast enough, despite clouds that threatened rain (and a Ben Franklin kind of kite flying experience should thunder show up too). We were off on an adventure to the park.
Only problem. Not a lot of wind. We were running all over the place trying to get that kite into the air. I was beginning to despair.
Then again, there is nothing quite like the determination of a seven year old. If there was even the hint of a breeze, we were going to find it.
And we did!
The only thing was, once my daughter had gotten a taste of kite flying, there was no holding her back. We stayed until the cows came home (all of them).
Which didn't bother any of us. It was a blast.
Even the ice cream man showed up. There really is something about the ice cream man that screams excitement. I couldn't get the dollar bills out fast enough before my daughter was grasping them in her fist, throwing the kite string to the wind (which I then ran after), while my father ran after her, trying to keep her from zigging into traffic just to stop the ice cream truck.
I think every ice cream driver gets a kick out of seeing how fast he can get those kids running. Personally, I think if they wanted to really break records at track and field events, they should pull out an ice cream truck. American runners at least would be reaching new speeds, I'm telling you. My daughter did.
She got her ice cream.
Then we eased out under a huge, old tree and watched her slurp down a crushed ice, while we built imaginary cities out of twigs, old leaves, dandelions and acorns.
Best Memorial Day ever.
Brightly Burning, by Alexa Donne
6 hours ago