feat or feet?
Cheryl Coast
One Saturday afternoon in the last century my sister Susie and I were outside playing Superman. (Susie loved Superman. It was 1958, and we didn’t have a television yet; but it would come soon. In the meantime, she would rush to the neighbor’s house after school to watch The Man of Steel on their TV.)
Not quite two years my junior, Susie dogged me everywhere in those first days after our move to a new town; an unappreciated shadow who mimicked my every move. Simply her presence when my schoolmates were around was a source of chagrin to my grade-school self; I was trying to make new friends and was annoyed by her wish to be with us; I saw it as a continuous attempt to pester and outdo, or at least match my abilities (greatly superior to hers, I was sure). In short, she embarrassed me.
Beyond our kitchen door on the upside of the hill our house stood on, loomed a poured concrete retaining wall rising from three feet at the low end to six at the apex. It was ugly, but it kept the soil behind it from sliding down the hill and taking our rickety house with it. A little footpath led from the lowest point on the wall up alongside it to the top, before disappearing into the woods behind. There I stood at the highpoint of the wall in the waning Indian summer sunlight, a Superhero clad in baggy shorts and nine-year old resolve. Susie peered from behind me over the drop, holding fast to the
butt of my shorts, her little face scrunched in misgiving.
Not quite two years my junior, Susie dogged me everywhere in those first days after our move to a new town; an unappreciated shadow who mimicked my every move. Simply her presence when my schoolmates were around was a source of chagrin to my grade-school self; I was trying to make new friends and was annoyed by her wish to be with us; I saw it as a continuous attempt to pester and outdo, or at least match my abilities (greatly superior to hers, I was sure). In short, she embarrassed me.
Beyond our kitchen door on the upside of the hill our house stood on, loomed a poured concrete retaining wall rising from three feet at the low end to six at the apex. It was ugly, but it kept the soil behind it from sliding down the hill and taking our rickety house with it. A little footpath led from the lowest point on the wall up alongside it to the top, before disappearing into the woods behind. There I stood at the highpoint of the wall in the waning Indian summer sunlight, a Superhero clad in baggy shorts and nine-year old resolve. Susie peered from behind me over the drop, holding fast to the
butt of my shorts, her little face scrunched in misgiving.
Our lower-than-four-foot-high eyes transformed our perch into the crown of a modern skyscraper, the vista below an endless metropolis bustling with people scurrying around like ants. They probably were ants. Seeing her hesitance, the evil side of my brain sized up the situation and in Lex Luthor-like glee formed an excellent plan: I could be a real hero here today, at least in her eyes. I could know stuff she didn’t.
With all the sincerity I could manufacture, I assured my sister that the thing any superhero worth her Cheerios would do is jump from that lofty height. I convinced her with doubletalk and pantomime that the faded old window curtain knotted into a cape around her neck would unquestionably allow her to fly, however briefly. That is, if she really wanted to. I threw this last line in, of course, to poke my sister; I had no intent to allow her to put that conviction to the test.
“See, the wind will get underneath your cape and hold it up,” I said, “and you will be going so fast, it will stick straight out. All you have to do is remember to hold your arms out in front of you.” Earnestly she absorbed my explanation, her little face squinting up at me in the sunshine.
Eager to prove her mettle, she abruptly ran down the slope to the shortest end of the retainer, hopped off without further discussion—and promptly fell onto the driveway below, her pudgy little butt tangled in faded chintz; a sight that filled me with a
strange mix of alarm and sweet gratification.
With all the sincerity I could manufacture, I assured my sister that the thing any superhero worth her Cheerios would do is jump from that lofty height. I convinced her with doubletalk and pantomime that the faded old window curtain knotted into a cape around her neck would unquestionably allow her to fly, however briefly. That is, if she really wanted to. I threw this last line in, of course, to poke my sister; I had no intent to allow her to put that conviction to the test.
“See, the wind will get underneath your cape and hold it up,” I said, “and you will be going so fast, it will stick straight out. All you have to do is remember to hold your arms out in front of you.” Earnestly she absorbed my explanation, her little face squinting up at me in the sunshine.
Eager to prove her mettle, she abruptly ran down the slope to the shortest end of the retainer, hopped off without further discussion—and promptly fell onto the driveway below, her pudgy little butt tangled in faded chintz; a sight that filled me with a
strange mix of alarm and sweet gratification.
Watching Susie repeat her stunted flight again and again, I knew I couldn’t be bested by a seven-year-old. I mustn’t allow her to outshine me, do anything braver than me. But bravery was on vacation that day. I didn’t want to do something that involved jumping off into thin air. I didn’t know how I was going to get out of that predicament with my superiority intact.
Then the astute little bugger turned the tables on me. She let me know that if she could do it, I could do it, and she wanted to see it. She had a sudden flash of brilliance.
“Just get an umbrella, Sherry,” she said. “You can use it just like a parachute.”
Frowning at the hot asphalt below, my eyes shifted to my three-year-old brother’s hand-me-down, paint-chipped 1951 AMF Junior Rocket tricycle abandoned on the driveway just below the highest point of the wall. There it stood, its forlorn and faded fender bent and rusted, butted handlebars-first into the base of the wall.
With imperative heaving in my chest to reassert my supremacy; and caution shooting through my brain saying, now wait just a minute here, I shifted back and forth in indecision on the top of the wall. A week or so before I’d checked Mary Poppins at the Park out of the city library with my brand-new card (still a full six years before Ms. Poppins floated onto the movie screen). A vision of her blown in by the east wind, clutching her parrot-headed umbrella, materialized in my mind. Susie was right! I’d parachute from the wall and float over the trike just like Mary Poppins!
I told Susie to go get my umbrella. She ran down the path and into the house, charging back up again in short order, my blue tartan plaid umbrella in hand. I popped it open, ran to the high end of the wall directly above the trike, and before fear and better sense could take hold, leaped into the blue.
In the moment before I launched from the edge, I’d imagined myself in full glorious flight, but hadn’t spent a nanosecond figuring out a landing strategy. I’d assumed I’d glide down, wind-buoyed, and touch down in a dainty finish, twirling my umbrella just like Daisy Duck in the cartoons. I was rudely disabused of that notion a
second later.
Then the astute little bugger turned the tables on me. She let me know that if she could do it, I could do it, and she wanted to see it. She had a sudden flash of brilliance.
“Just get an umbrella, Sherry,” she said. “You can use it just like a parachute.”
Frowning at the hot asphalt below, my eyes shifted to my three-year-old brother’s hand-me-down, paint-chipped 1951 AMF Junior Rocket tricycle abandoned on the driveway just below the highest point of the wall. There it stood, its forlorn and faded fender bent and rusted, butted handlebars-first into the base of the wall.
With imperative heaving in my chest to reassert my supremacy; and caution shooting through my brain saying, now wait just a minute here, I shifted back and forth in indecision on the top of the wall. A week or so before I’d checked Mary Poppins at the Park out of the city library with my brand-new card (still a full six years before Ms. Poppins floated onto the movie screen). A vision of her blown in by the east wind, clutching her parrot-headed umbrella, materialized in my mind. Susie was right! I’d parachute from the wall and float over the trike just like Mary Poppins!
I told Susie to go get my umbrella. She ran down the path and into the house, charging back up again in short order, my blue tartan plaid umbrella in hand. I popped it open, ran to the high end of the wall directly above the trike, and before fear and better sense could take hold, leaped into the blue.
In the moment before I launched from the edge, I’d imagined myself in full glorious flight, but hadn’t spent a nanosecond figuring out a landing strategy. I’d assumed I’d glide down, wind-buoyed, and touch down in a dainty finish, twirling my umbrella just like Daisy Duck in the cartoons. I was rudely disabused of that notion a
second later.
I was lucky enough to clear the tricycle—barely—but not enough to deflect the asphalt rushing toward my freckled nose. I’d forgotten all about my handbrakes. They were busy clutching the umbrella all the way down. That left the job to the rest of my body. My brain, meanwhile, was busy executing a crazy inner command to DON’T SQUISH THE UMBRELLA! Completely occupied trying to avert breaking its ribs, the gray matter spared not a synapse for my own.
As my dirty bare feet slapped harshly onto the hot pavement, I pitched forward, then bounced to my knees still holding the unscathed umbrella. Gravel bits embedded and peppered my knees; my soon-to-be-bruised ankles and battered arches throbbed in testament to my questionable courage. My feet stung like a bishop with a beehive in his britches. And it would get worse before it got better. But I didn’t care at all. Yet. A goofy grin lit my face; just for a moment I saw myself with a big medal around my skinny, still-superior neck.
(Of course, I didn’t get so carried away with my own bravery that I forgot to tell on Susie later for talking me into jumping off the highest point of that retaining wall on my bare feet. She got into a lot of trouble for that. I felt bad about it. Just a little bit. Susie has always thought I should have been in trouble too, since I was the one who made the jump.)
As my dirty bare feet slapped harshly onto the hot pavement, I pitched forward, then bounced to my knees still holding the unscathed umbrella. Gravel bits embedded and peppered my knees; my soon-to-be-bruised ankles and battered arches throbbed in testament to my questionable courage. My feet stung like a bishop with a beehive in his britches. And it would get worse before it got better. But I didn’t care at all. Yet. A goofy grin lit my face; just for a moment I saw myself with a big medal around my skinny, still-superior neck.
(Of course, I didn’t get so carried away with my own bravery that I forgot to tell on Susie later for talking me into jumping off the highest point of that retaining wall on my bare feet. She got into a lot of trouble for that. I felt bad about it. Just a little bit. Susie has always thought I should have been in trouble too, since I was the one who made the jump.)
Sanity must have reasserted itself at that point, because I didn’t try it again. As the amber sun set, I grabbed Susie’s hand and we went together, my sister and I, as we did all things, to have our bath and get ready for supper. Susie was cheered by her new-found bravery and ability to make me do something she wanted for a change, and I basked in the security of my continued championship in her eyes.
Who could foretell then the place she would make in my heart, grown wide and deep through countless years; now become my champion, my friend— revered in my heart for her strength and skills, and her warm generous spirit?
We little Boomer girls: the first generation to collectively embrace the truth that we may do whatever we turn our minds to do, go wherever our imaginations lead— be it stepping into the winner’s circle, leading a giant corporation, developing new medicines, improving processes or machines to benefit humankind. And so, like our long-ago Saturday heroes, we still pin on the cape and leap into the unknown… believing, knowing we will land on our feet.
Sometimes now I look at my aged flat, oversize feet and smile, remembering that day, its golden sunshine and that wacky contest with my only sister. For an instant, a split second, as the breeze blew my hair back and I was fettered by neither solid ground nor self-doubt, I flew. Just like Mary Poppins. Just like Superman. If I could call “do-overs,” would I rewrite that day, forego the amazing Superleap and save my poor
arches? Not a chance.
Who could foretell then the place she would make in my heart, grown wide and deep through countless years; now become my champion, my friend— revered in my heart for her strength and skills, and her warm generous spirit?
We little Boomer girls: the first generation to collectively embrace the truth that we may do whatever we turn our minds to do, go wherever our imaginations lead— be it stepping into the winner’s circle, leading a giant corporation, developing new medicines, improving processes or machines to benefit humankind. And so, like our long-ago Saturday heroes, we still pin on the cape and leap into the unknown… believing, knowing we will land on our feet.
Sometimes now I look at my aged flat, oversize feet and smile, remembering that day, its golden sunshine and that wacky contest with my only sister. For an instant, a split second, as the breeze blew my hair back and I was fettered by neither solid ground nor self-doubt, I flew. Just like Mary Poppins. Just like Superman. If I could call “do-overs,” would I rewrite that day, forego the amazing Superleap and save my poor
arches? Not a chance.