jump

When I was a little girl my dad strapped some gear on me and tossed me off the platform of what was known as the kiddy jump tower at Fort Bragg. He did this without the prior consent or knowledge of my mom who knew nothing about it until I came home one Saturday afternoon with a certificate that announced I had officially graduated from "Kiddy Jump School."

I think Dad is still doing time for that one, but Mom has finally stopped shuddering and glaring at him whenever he mentions it.

For me, it was an exhilarating experience, one that set off the fuse of thrill addiction that has run through my life, fueling the jumps off the roof into the swimming pool, leaping from the railing of the nearby causeway bridge into the warm gulf of Mexico with all the wild boys in high school and taking a repelling class with my brother in the German alps. Our teachers were Army Rangers and they were a little nuts. It was wonderful.

Because we (my older brother and I) grew up in the bosom of a military family, and by that, I mean all my dad's colleagues and friends, there was an aura of danger that ran through my childhood, kind of like a foreboding soundtrack playing faintly in another room somewhere. Dad was a paratrooper, a Ranger, and all his friends were strapping, gorgeous muscled men with crew cuts who sat around our various carports at successive posts in Georgia, North Carolina, Kansas and Kentucky, smoking cigars and one-upping each other with macho stories. They filled my red wagon with ice and bottles of beer and lounged in the evenings.

Many of them are dead now, several lost in Vietnam and my dad has not recovered from losing them. I know now that he never will. He carries them around with him and they are never far from his thoughts. I can see it in his expression when something wonderful happens. I see bitter nodding knowledgement of the exquisite delightfulness of life. But there is sadness and regret and yes, guilt, that he was granted long life when better men than he (his words) were cheated.

Dad is coming up on a milestone birthday and my brother and I have decided to take him skydiving. But Mom has forbidden us from doing this. When she heard our plans, she folded her tiny arms across her chest and said "Absolutely not, no way."

Turns out she is not concerned so much about Dad completing the job on destroying his knees, but she is certain the three of us will die and she refuses to see us all plummet to our demises all at once. She apparently prefers we go one at a time. And my significant other (a courageous soul but a huge chicken when it comes to anything higher than a step-stool) also forbade me.

So we are on for next month some time. Dad can't wait and neither can I and my brother is giggling with anticipation whenever we discuss it. Hoo-rah.