Let’s Go Fly A Kite

wp-1475788487738.jpg

A few weeks ago, we went on a short holiday. Or a long weekend, if you prefer. Holidays used to involve exciting things such as planes, trains and automobiles, meals out, sunsets and lie ins, often in warmer climes. Now they mostly involve collecting vouchers from the newspaper, traffic jams, caravans, sleep deprivation and six-foot tall dancing fluffy rabbits. Which is all fine of course. Except maybe the rabbits.

On our way back home, we stopped off to say goodbye to the sea and partake in one last go of our newly found most fun thing to do on holidays ever. Flying a kite.

On the last two Father’s Days, we have visited the National Trust property at Dudmaston where we made kites at the Family Fun Day. Little cellophane sails held aloft by garden canes stuck down with badly applied sellotape. String with coloured ribbon for tails and thin cotton line that looks like it will snap if blown too hard, let alone launched on a windy day. Having made them, one kite sat behind a picture gathering dust for a year or more and the other on top of a bookshelf in the kitchen. Where better?

We finally got them packed and onto the beach during day two of holidays. Would they fly? No, not at first, but after a little untying and re-sticking we were off! The first kite managed to float pretty well if we caught the wind correctly. The second adopted more a high-speed kamikaze flight path, darting in crazy circles up and down until smashing into the sand below.

Little legs spent much time running up and down the empty beach trying to catch enough breeze for another lift off. Larger legs spent much time tangled up in line as the up and down went more round and round. Eventually, kids worn out, we headed for lunch after a lovely morning whereupon I invested a whacking five English pounds (currently worth about two US dollars) on a proper kite from the cafe.

On the final day, I took this picture on the beach at Talacre.

Flying a Kite

Flying a Kite

I was rather pleased with my photo which should one day end up in the children’s albums if we ever get round to printing anything out ever again. Ahem. (See also this old post.)

It is funny how a photo can evoke different mental imagery depending on who looks at it and when.

In years to come, the children may look at the photo (yes, yes… it will be printed by then) and summon planted memories of a long forgotten, almost idyllic, holiday. Quiet beaches, stormy skies, a coat at least a size too small that should have gone in the hand-me-downs bag, and flying a kite. Which will be nice.

Friends (asides from those on my Facebook “Stalkers” list) and family will get their sanitised highlights through social media and may recall happy times on holidays of their own.

And Mum and Dad, being the only ones who were on the beach at the time, will recall something quite different. Over to Sue Barker to find out why in our “What Happens Next” round.

Within a second of the shutter clicking the kite was released, on purpose, for the second time in a matter of minutes. The first time we managed to jump on the line and quickly stop it. A bit of winding in, a quick chat about the need to hold on tightly and no harm done.

The second time coincided with a gust of wind that propelled the kite at high-speed down the beach towards the lighthouse.

Moments later, a quick thinking mummy (having checked suitability of footwear – old trainers, so fine) pegged it in hot pursuit. Off the kite flew, faster and faster, first over the sand, then the wet bit, then the stony bit, then the sinky bit which were all carefully negotiated in a desperate attempt to catch it.

I had two soundtracks to this rather bizarre scene running through my head. Having decided that it was more Benny Hill theme than Chariots of Fire, the rest of us gave chase too.

Eventually, the kite came to a halt in mud at the water’s edge near the lighthouse. Mummy pounced on it and collected her gold medal. The telling off that followed was interesting in that yes, it was definitely necessary, but the minutes preceding had been so amusing that it was difficult to keep straight faces.

This is an ongoing problem in parenting. If something is a bit naughty, but also funny, should we say anything? Like the time when our eldest, then a two year old, shouted “K***HEAD!” at a driver that overtook us like an idiot. She was right of course but, slightly surprised, the only response I could find was “Have you been in the car with mummy?”

Anyway, having cleaned the mud off the kite, stopped the tears and packed everything up, we headed back to the car and home via the ice cream factory. You can’t go to the beach without having an ice cream after all, even if the ice cream ends up being purchased 35 miles away.

Picture This

160603 - Album.jpg

In which our hero unexpectedly ponders whether nostalgia will ever be as good as it used to be. Or something.

As a single man, my living room had a floor with a carpet. As a married man, our living room had a wooden floor with a rug. As a married man and a Dad, we have the same wooden floor and rug, only buried somewhere beneath the stage that the daily bookshelf and toy cupboard Jenga game is played out on. Stuff, piled as high as my head, ready to topple should any integral component be pulled too soon. And it always does, especially if I’m anywhere in the vicinity. 

Clearing up the debris of one such collapse I discovered, peeking through a scattering of Peppa Pig jigsaw pieces and Duplo blocks, a mysterious red book. With two dogs on the front. 

It was an album. An album of images and forgotten memories. Memories captured then printed out at Boots the Chemist or lovingly cut from the local newspaper. Memories preserved beneath the sticky yellowing cellophane sheets that have served to protect them since the seventies. My childhood photo album no less. Blimey. An antique.

After a few minutes flicking and reminiscing, I closed the book, placed it back on the shelf, and booted the other junk behind the curtains. Tidy.

Then something dawned on me. There it was. My childhood, captured in a single volume held in my hand. A couple of dozen pages, with fewer stills than the average modern parent posts of Pop Tarts being shovelled into their jam-smeared toddler’s mouths by Thursday each week.

Technology in the olden days. Shove a miserly 24 or 36 exposure film into the camera at the start of the summer holidays, chuck in the suitcase and off you go. Three years later, the camera would resurface. Cue the well-drilled ritual of snapping flowers, feet, the lawn or some nearby ducks just to use up the film. Nip it down to the chemists, then wait a week for the “Photo Lottery” results to be drawn.

‘What have we got?”

Well, nineteen blurry shots of the Kagool clad family in grotty British seaside towns, heads predictably decapitated thanks to the erratic pocket Kodak viewfinder. Some perfectly exposed snaps of this season’s Clarks Commandos. And a mallard as the bonus ball.

The olden days. Much the same as when my one year old or my wife gets their hands on the camera today then. Ahem. Fast forwarding the Betamax to the present, a time with digital “the wireless” and colour internets….

Waking up. SNAP SNAP. Getting dressed. SNAP, SNAP. Breakfasting. SNAP, SNAP, CRACKLE and POP. Bath time. Erm, best not. 

As Dad, I am (rightly) put in charge of the family’s technology. Primarily the remote control, but sometimes the camera. SNAP, SNAP. There you go. Lovely.

Being in charge of the camera means that I don’t feature in any snaps, which is good and bad for the same reason. But if, one day, my fate is sealed when I accidentally step into the road only to be ploughed down by a steamroller parade, migrating wildebeest, and a Norwegian marching band, will my children remember what I looked like in years to come? A bit flat I would think.

“There’s got to be a picture of your Dad somewhere. Pass me the old album. See. Beaumaris beach. 1977. He didn’t change a bit.”

Looking back at my own holiday snaps, I fondly recall (the Director’s Cut of) happy family times. Ice-creams and dodgem cars. Sandcastles and chips on the seafront. It’s almost as if the sand in the face, tantrums, sunburn, more tantrums and the never to be mentioned again near-death pool incident didn’t happen. Marvellous.

Almost everything is recorded in one form or another these days. Never before has a generation that has achieved so little documented it in such meticulous detail. And we’re all guilty. Well, not me so much. But you lot all are, definitely.

The technology allows us to upload, download, and share without a care. And it’s great. Or is it? Really?

When this year’s toddler crop Bloom into their teens, the more socially aware may feel a strange paranoia that they have been the star of a 21st Century Truman Show reboot all along. First steps, learning to talk or learning to read, shoplifting their first “pick and mix” bag from Woolworths. If we as parents are not careful, every key life moment or mistake made will be out there somewhere. For all eternity. For all to see.

Or will the opposite be true? With their past, current, and future existences so immediate and disposable, will this generation even have a single album with a couple of dozen pages of pictures to look back on when they are parents themselves?  And will our little one’s childhoods simply sail slowly away into cyberspace, never to be discovered again?