Unfamiliar with the hallowed halls of Wickfield High, I arrived a few minutes late for Art Class. The teacher, Mr. Barkis, a hippie-wannabe-looking fellow, suggested I grab an empty stool. The only spot was beside a moon-faced, snaggle-toothed, mountainous man-child with a smile that said: I am what I am. I climbed onto the stool. After Mr. Barkis finished calling the roll, my tablemate turned and, with a huge grin, said: “I’m Richard Babley.” He stuck out a giant paw, and we shook hands. Richard’s voice was soft and non-threatening; you wouldn’t expect that timbre from someone with his impressive bearing.

       Richard and I sat together that semester making clay ashtrays, attempting still-life fruit paintings, decoupaging magazine photos – my bare-breasted rock festival effort caused a minor scandal – and the week after St. Valentine’s Day, paired with our tablemate, built kites constructed of bamboo sticks and gift wrap paper, ours with Christmas Nativity wrap. We sent baby Jesus aloft on a moderately windy Friday afternoon in late February.

       Mr. Barkis arranged a kite-flying party on the school’s dirt football field, each pair with their kites attached to a spool of string and spread out to avoid tangling the tethered, soaring creations. I had flown cheap, store-bought kites, but Richard had never experienced the thrill of holding the thin, sturdy cord while the delicate quadrilateral moved and danced in the sky.

       We were ready to launch, and Richard held the kite up, facing the wind. I unspooled a few yards of string and called to him to let loose when he saw me start to run. He let go at the right moment, and our kite immediately ascended, the late-winter breeze carrying our art project heavenward.

        Baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph, the Magi, and the attending barn animals climbed higher, with Richard and I staring up in wonder. I handed him the spool of string, and he received it as one accepts a treasured heirloom. Richard quickly mastered the art of kite flying like he’d been doing it all his life.

       The sun peeked through the high clouds, and our kite was a speck with nearly all the string spooled out. Richard stood on the football field, his head raised and a smile creasing his broad face. I don’t know if it was because of the cold wind or perhaps due to the sheer joy of the moment, but there was a single tear running down one side of that full moon.

       By this time, Mr. Barkis and most of our classmates had gathered around us to witness the most successful endeavor of the day. Our Art teacher was beaming and exclaimed: “Wow, just like Icarus!”  Holding the now-empty spool with the firmly knotted string attached to the metaphorically wax-winged kite, Richard turned to Mr. Barkis and said: “Yeah, but Icarus flew too close to the sun and fell into the sea and drowned.”

       Mr. Barkis smiled and said he was willing to concede the point.