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Childhood "Tragedies" by Evelyn Corrie Birkby
(excerpt from Kitchen-Klatter magazine, March 1958, p.7) "Childhood can hold some very tragic moments within its small hand. One such bit of stark grief came to our Bobby last week. He is given a weekly sum of ten cents called, naturely [sic], "allowance," and he can do just as he pleases with that money. Often it goes for candy or gum. Sometimes he has a saving spree and hoards it carefully, chuckling over an advertisement for an expensive toy or eyeing the picture of a pony longingly. Two weeks ago his small amount of capital went with him to the dime store. He looked at the bright display of color books, he drooled a bit at the candy counter, he went 'round and 'round the toys and finally the momentous decision was made. This time he would spend his dime on a kite. We arrived home just in time to prepare supper and get the children ready for bed; and despite Bobby's pleading to put his kite together ("I can do it all by myself, mama, it won't bother you a bit!"), we said no. It might get torn before he and daddy could fly it, and besides we didn't have any string or tail ready for it as yet. Bobby is a patient little boy for only eight. He waited. The day came when daddy was home long enough to be of help in case o dire necessity, such as kite flying. They put the kite together as instructed. They got the string holder, made lovingly four years ago for another kite-flying expedition. They fastened on the tail. Excitement mounted. Would the wind blow right? Would the kite sail high in the sky? Such a beautiful blue kite surely must be the very best kind for the wind to elevate into a white and blue firmament! Off to the crest of a hill Bobby and his daddy ran. The wind seemed just right. Bobby held the kite vertical and daddy played out the string. They both ran. "Now!" yelled daddy. Bobby threw the kite hard, he threw it straight up. Crash ... tear ... crunch. "Daddy, daddy, my sleeve caught on the kite, it is torn!" And Bobby burst into the sobs of the greatly distressed. The cross sticks, which were not especially strong anyway, had caught on Bobby's coat sleeve. No amount of repair work could possibly mend the sad, torn, blue kite. For a time it appeared that nothing would repair the broken heart of one little boy who had looked forward so long to the day when he and his daddy would go kite flying. By the time the two had trooped into the kitchen, the tears were dry. Daddy had convinced his son that a home-made kite was much sturdier than the store-bought kind. When Bobby came into the kitchen I was just putting a cherry pie in the oven. If any added cheering was needed, the sight of the cherry pie did the job."
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