So, about three weeks later, after my dad's bruise had turned funny shades of yellow and green, he decided it was time to get rid of that stump from the tulip poplar in the back yard. Now, working at a Navy base had its perks in 1968. I'm sure that now they're more careful about expired and extra supplies, but back then, they periodically gave away what they didn't want. There were some really cool things that came home from the base's surplus equipment days- a used artillery shell that stood about 3 1/2 feet high that sounded like a cannon when you put a fire cracker into it, a cargo parachute that floated cargo that was about my size, and dynamite! Well, to tell you the truth, I'm not really sure if the dynamite came from the base or from somewhere else, like the Farm Bureau, but Daddy started figuring what to do with his dynamite. He spent a lot of time figuring.
You know, I really want to tell you about the time we used that cargo parachute on a windy day. We'd gone down to my grandparents' house on a windy spring day. My mom made me wear long pants because it wasn't warm enough for my usual tank top, shorts, and flip flops. Daddy had the idea that we could fly that parachute like a kite. Oh, and we did. We really did.
Daddy's parents lived in bottom land further South in Indiana than where we lived. There weren't as many trees or hills there and it was a great place for flying our kites. Usually, we made our own kites out of newspaper and balsa wood. If I made a kite for that day, I don't remember. If I did, it is probably up there still, plowed under and turned to dirt.
We'd walked out behind Grandma's house, past the fairgrounds and up to the top of the Indian mound that was about a quarter of a mile away. Long ago, archaeologists had discovered the long mound, retrieved all the artifacts from it that they wanted, and abandoned the site. My grandpa had a great arrowhead collection. I even have an arrowhead from searching around up there after they'd plowed the fields in spring. The Native Americans were long gone, except what was in our blood. My grandpa used to tell us how his grandmother was a full-blooded Cherokee. There was a picture of a woman that Grandma showed me and my sister has shown me where she is on the family tree. I always wondered if the arrowheads were Cherokee, but I doubt it. Southern Indiana was Shawnee country and the Cherokees were from further South and East in Tennessee.
On that windy day, it was still too cold and wet for the farmers to have plowed and there were rows of stubbly corn stalks about six inches tall. I was glad I hadn't worn flip flops since the corn rows were hard to walk on and the furrows between were still muddy. Daddy got the parachute out of it's canvas pouch and let it billow open in the wind. It was beautiful, like a hot-air balloon, only white. I waited for my turn, knowing that saying anything wouldn't put me further ahead in the line. Even Grandma wanted a turn to hold onto that parachute, her red and white dress billowing up a little, mirroring the chute. She held it with one hand and held the other at her side holding her dress down. It seemed like my dad went according to age, oldest to youngest. It was going to take forever. I started to kick clods of dirt until my mother grabbed me by the elbow and told me not to get dirty. My mom could walk through a pig sty and come out white on the other side. I, on the other hand, could walk through a clean room and get a black stripe across my shirt. It was a gift she didn't appreciate in me. I'm not sure I do either.
Finally, the afternoon threatened to end, the sun was low in the horizon, my shoes caked in mud, and my jeans had a brown hem. Daddy turned to me and asked if I wanted a turn. You didn't have to ask me twice. I took the line, grinned, and hoped for a gust of wind.
Boy, I got one. That first second I had hold of the parachute, it bucked in my hands. I held on like a pro, but I ran forward with it trying to relieve some of the pressure of holding it. Then I made my nearly-fatal mistake. I jumped up with the joy of it.
The parachute saw it's opportunity, picked me up and flew!
I went way higher than I would have jumped out of a tree. Then I landed, not too hard, but not on my feet and I was dragged along a row of corn stubble. It hurt, but I held on. Did I tell you that by that age, about eight, I'd been water-skiing for three years and the main thing you had to do was to stay upright and hang on. So I hung on.
The parachute lifted me up to standing and I jumped again. I knew I'd never get a chance to feel this weightless again. I took great long leaps, ten, maybe fifteen feet at a stride. I was like one of the astronauts on the moon, taking one giant leap.
"Let go!" Daddy screamed well behind me. I didn't want to let go. I wanted to fly like the barn swallows that swooped for bugs in the evening air. I dropped and touched my toes onto the ground but was popped right back up again.
"Let go!" Daddy's voice was even further behind me. I looked back and could see him running. They were all running. I really didn't want to lose that parachute. This was great!
"Let go! I could barely hear him, but this time I could hear fear in Daddy's voice. Fear. That was a new one. I let go, hoping our parachute wasn't gone forever. It billowed and rolled, but losing its ballast, it lost lift and came down in some raspberry brambles at the North end of the mound. I layed there in the mud, covered in scratches and let them examine me for damage. I was fine. I had flown.
After that, Daddy always tied the parachute, on a windy day, to a tree.
Thank you for listening, jb
You know, I really want to tell you about the time we used that cargo parachute on a windy day. We'd gone down to my grandparents' house on a windy spring day. My mom made me wear long pants because it wasn't warm enough for my usual tank top, shorts, and flip flops. Daddy had the idea that we could fly that parachute like a kite. Oh, and we did. We really did.
Daddy's parents lived in bottom land further South in Indiana than where we lived. There weren't as many trees or hills there and it was a great place for flying our kites. Usually, we made our own kites out of newspaper and balsa wood. If I made a kite for that day, I don't remember. If I did, it is probably up there still, plowed under and turned to dirt.
We'd walked out behind Grandma's house, past the fairgrounds and up to the top of the Indian mound that was about a quarter of a mile away. Long ago, archaeologists had discovered the long mound, retrieved all the artifacts from it that they wanted, and abandoned the site. My grandpa had a great arrowhead collection. I even have an arrowhead from searching around up there after they'd plowed the fields in spring. The Native Americans were long gone, except what was in our blood. My grandpa used to tell us how his grandmother was a full-blooded Cherokee. There was a picture of a woman that Grandma showed me and my sister has shown me where she is on the family tree. I always wondered if the arrowheads were Cherokee, but I doubt it. Southern Indiana was Shawnee country and the Cherokees were from further South and East in Tennessee.
On that windy day, it was still too cold and wet for the farmers to have plowed and there were rows of stubbly corn stalks about six inches tall. I was glad I hadn't worn flip flops since the corn rows were hard to walk on and the furrows between were still muddy. Daddy got the parachute out of it's canvas pouch and let it billow open in the wind. It was beautiful, like a hot-air balloon, only white. I waited for my turn, knowing that saying anything wouldn't put me further ahead in the line. Even Grandma wanted a turn to hold onto that parachute, her red and white dress billowing up a little, mirroring the chute. She held it with one hand and held the other at her side holding her dress down. It seemed like my dad went according to age, oldest to youngest. It was going to take forever. I started to kick clods of dirt until my mother grabbed me by the elbow and told me not to get dirty. My mom could walk through a pig sty and come out white on the other side. I, on the other hand, could walk through a clean room and get a black stripe across my shirt. It was a gift she didn't appreciate in me. I'm not sure I do either.
Finally, the afternoon threatened to end, the sun was low in the horizon, my shoes caked in mud, and my jeans had a brown hem. Daddy turned to me and asked if I wanted a turn. You didn't have to ask me twice. I took the line, grinned, and hoped for a gust of wind.
Boy, I got one. That first second I had hold of the parachute, it bucked in my hands. I held on like a pro, but I ran forward with it trying to relieve some of the pressure of holding it. Then I made my nearly-fatal mistake. I jumped up with the joy of it.
The parachute saw it's opportunity, picked me up and flew!
I went way higher than I would have jumped out of a tree. Then I landed, not too hard, but not on my feet and I was dragged along a row of corn stubble. It hurt, but I held on. Did I tell you that by that age, about eight, I'd been water-skiing for three years and the main thing you had to do was to stay upright and hang on. So I hung on.
The parachute lifted me up to standing and I jumped again. I knew I'd never get a chance to feel this weightless again. I took great long leaps, ten, maybe fifteen feet at a stride. I was like one of the astronauts on the moon, taking one giant leap.
"Let go!" Daddy screamed well behind me. I didn't want to let go. I wanted to fly like the barn swallows that swooped for bugs in the evening air. I dropped and touched my toes onto the ground but was popped right back up again.
"Let go!" Daddy's voice was even further behind me. I looked back and could see him running. They were all running. I really didn't want to lose that parachute. This was great!
"Let go! I could barely hear him, but this time I could hear fear in Daddy's voice. Fear. That was a new one. I let go, hoping our parachute wasn't gone forever. It billowed and rolled, but losing its ballast, it lost lift and came down in some raspberry brambles at the North end of the mound. I layed there in the mud, covered in scratches and let them examine me for damage. I was fine. I had flown.
After that, Daddy always tied the parachute, on a windy day, to a tree.
Thank you for listening, jb
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