“Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
“Can we fly paper airplanes?”
Why We Wrote This
During a treasured afternoon with his granddaughter, our writer appreciates a central truth: The most important things in life aren’t things at all.
“You bet.”
As a young boy I had been fascinated by paper airplanes. Creating something that could fly from a mere scrap of paper seemed almost magical, as if making something from nothing. I flew them as a child. I flew them with my kids. And now I could share the wonder with my granddaughter.
Gathering up my collection of booklets on paper airplane designs, some previously assembled planes, and a raft of scrap paper, I ushered my granddaughter out to the front of our house. Sitting at the top of the driveway, which sloped steeply down to the sidewalk below, I took out some paper and began folding it into the shape of a plane.
My granddaughter watched me at first, but soon began folding her own planes. I watched her imagination take flight as her small, delicate hands churned out a plethora of designs she optimistically viewed as airworthy. Soon each of us had a small aerial armada of paper airplanes in myriad shapes.
While making a paper airplane is an exercise in creativity, flying one is an exercise in functionality, if not futility. It was time to test our aerial creations.
Taking one of the planes I had folded, I said, “Throw it up and out like this.”
Instead of taking wing, my plane spiraled into the ground a few feet away.
“Hmm, I think that plane could use a little more work. Now, you try one.”
My granddaughter selected one of the planes she had crafted and threw it as hard as she could. It, too, promptly spiraled into the ground.
“That’s all right. Try another,” I said.
She did, again and again, until her first successful flight brought forth a squeal of delight. Soon her eyes were twinkling as her planes danced and arced across the sky. As we stood there hurling planes skyward, I knew she could feel how magical it was.
With planes landing all over the front yard, we were both moving up and down the driveway breathlessly, launching and retrieving planes. We laughed as flights careened into rocks, plants, and each other, and even onto the roof; we were now both children impatiently waiting for the precious few that would soar for what seemed an eternity.
We tested and tweaked design elements until my granddaughter’s planes and flights rivaled mine. Most planes were middling performers, but some were stellar.
Soon we were competing for bragging rights, comparing the qualities and flight characteristics of the various planes.
Time seemed to stand still as we peppered the sky with planes. I focused on the flights – how high, how far, how long, and which planes performed best. Ultimately the best flight sailed out over the driveway and across the sidewalk, and then curved to the right up the street until landing in a gutter of the adjacent property approximately 65 feet away.
But my granddaughter, though happy to compete for bragging rights, was not primarily focused on such things. For she knew it was not the planes or their flights that mattered.
With the guileless wisdom of a child, she seemed to know that the most important things in life aren’t things at all.
What mattered to her was spending time with her grandfather. Because she lived half a continent away, she knew our time together, though cherished, would be infrequent.
Perhaps she, too, sensed that the days of a grandfather, like the days of a young girl, are almost as fleeting as the flight of a paper airplane.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
“Can we fly paper airplanes forever?”
“Would you like that?”
“Yeah.”
“So would I. … So would I.”
