My parents were big into old-fashioned toys when my sister and I were kids.

I can show you embarrassing photos of my 9-year-old self, in a Kristy McNichol haircut and green Brady Bunch pants, awkwardly trying to stay upright on a pair of wooden stilts my dad had bolted together.

In the summer before my seventh-grade year, when we moved to a new town, I recall being mortified that my potential new friends would see my little sister skipping around the block, chasing a metal hoop (CLANG-clang-clang) with a special hoop-rolling stick Dad had fashioned, with a bowed crossbar at the bottom for nudging the rolling loop along the sidewalk.

So I’m not surprised that the first kite I remember flying was a wood-and-paper job, diamond-shaped and printed like an American flag. (This was during the height of Bicentennial fever, remember.)

Dad helped me get the kite aloft, in an empty space between the beige stucco boxes that served as military housing at the Lemoore Naval Air Station in arid central California.

Here’s where things get fuzzy: I honestly don’t know if the rest actually happened, or I dreamed it, or made it up altogether.

He went inside the house. I kept feeding the kite more string, watching it rise and shrink into the sky – and suddenly, there was no more string on the reel and the kite was off like an escaped balloon.

I got a lecture on paying attention, but I think Dad was surprised the string hadn’t been tied to the reel. He let me off easy.

At least when that kite landed, probably miles away on that windy day, it was biodegradable.