oops, that is a book cover for my eldest... it matches the stuff I made for her sewing room

Who Am I?

If I lost an arm or a leg, I’d still be me, so I am more than you see.

I can give hope and enthusiasm to others, so my energy is not always contained.

When afraid, there is a small child, hiding behind my aloof demeanor. So I am less than you see.

I sense joy and love from the nature that surrounds me. My energy is regained.

There is more and less than my body. Fed by the universe, I’ll always ‘be’

This is the third and final chapter to the word 'jumping'.

Jumping again
OK, where was I:
A wool beanie tried to ruin my day
A prison 12 x 10 was too much to bear.
An scape plan decided

Now for the “Execution”

In San Francisco, the front of a house could be 2 stories high, the back can be more or less.

I committed to the jump, I flew like a faerie I dived like a B-52…. I reached the porch!! On the edge of my rib cage, my last breath escaped with no new one forthcoming, my hands grappling the roof of the porch. My finger nails scraped and broke. I could hear my new favorite shirt snagging, my shoes tapping the water pipe. I jumped but not with enough arc. My struggles only detained the inevitable.

I crashed like the B-52, sprawled within the flower bed and the pathway, the rose cane (tree trunk) holding me down, spikes in my hair, chest and arms. Thank goodness I passed out. I would have been terrified otherwise.

Now comes the scary part. I had to get up, somehow. I was dizzy and shaky. That damn rose was lying on the ground laughing and pointing at me. I grabbed it and leaned it against the house. The water pipe was still against the house. My new shirt was a mess, snagged, torn and ripped. Who knew when I would get another one? Being a tom boy, I thought there was a chance I would get away with it, but I really was sad about it.
Now I was outside and had to break into my own house with my mom and dad in the living room.
My city didn’t come over and help me with this yet.

Either someone left the door unlocked or I really was good at picking the lock or shaking the door knob until it unlocked itself. I don’t remember, but I did get my beat up 5th grade body back into the house. My City did take care of me after all. My dad had a penchant for locks and booby traps. The garage was one of the spookiest places on the street, but I made it through and crept up the stairs when I found them. The cobwebs leaned against my face and arms. The door was opened a crack, the coast looked clear.

I made a break for it.

Just as I was opening my door, looking to get into bed, my mother reached out and caught me. At this point I needed to change my clothes. I had to stand straight and act like nothing was wrong. I had to think fast.

Why was I out of my room? Of course it was to use the bath room.

I was so relieved to be confined to my room again. I had a chance to hide the cuts, I licked them like the cat did and pushed the skin back over the worst ones. I tried to hand sew my shirt back together and gave up. My mom wouldn’t be surprised if it was torn up while I climbed a tree, a fence, or an abandoned car. I laid there trying to just breath and keep the world from spinning and spinning.

A couple of things happened. My sister came over that weekend with her boys. That is when the rose bush was found on the ground. My city kept that killer up until that day. Sorry boys, you took the heat for what I did. Several years later, a doctor asked me if I was hit by a car years and years earlier, when I was a child say. The last five vertebrae were broken. Nope, I wasn’t. Let him figure it out or maybe he can read this blog.

Back to the word ‘jumping.’

It was a beautiful seductive day, the kind that demanded that you to go outside. I responded to my city by wearing my brand new outfit. The colorful, abstract polished cotton shirt made me happy, and the shorts were cute too. This may have been one of the first shifts from being a virulent tom boy. I thrummed with the heart of my city.

I couldn’t decide on what to do. To reach the porch roof, I would have to jump out in an arc to avoid the rose bush and the water pipe.

While I sat outside the window sill, dangling my legs I pondered and pondered the feasibility of throwing myself around like that. I mean, jumping from a swing to the ground was one thing, but I never jumped in an arc.

An apple called me from the kitchen, one of those golden kind that were sweet and sparkly. This time, I stood on the window sill, leaning against the jam crunching away at that apple. Still trying to figure out what would happen if I stepped off and jumped out like a diver from a high dive board.

In my childlike wisdom, I decided that sitting and swinging my legs to throw myself out the window would probably land me on the porch at my ribs. I would probably bounce off and kill my mothers’ plants. As much as she loved and sacrificed for us, I knew where my ranking was when it came to her flowers.

I decided.

The apple was long gone. Standing on the windowsill, one hand on each side of the window jam I decided that I would jump to the roof of the porch. I never worried that the yellow corrugation would hold the impact of my weight. I never worried that I couldn’t jump in an arc. Now people watch basket ball players do it all the time. Yeah, but I thought of it FIRST.

I bounced up and down a little, to get ready for the jump… I was committed to the act
See you back at the porch later, that's enough jumping for now

Jumping is a good word. Let's start there. This takes place when the little ride was just a little on training wheels.

My parents were immigrants, and like most immigrants, they had little money. They sacrificed any time they had to work multiple jobs… just to send us all to parochial school. The uniforms were expensive along with the beanies and saddle shoes that went with them, all brought forth from whisper then reserves of money gathered by a cannery worker and a ‘landscaper.’ There are three subjects that go here, but only one will be written about for now. Often I lost that beanie, that piece of wool that escaped hairpins. It was a requirement to meet dress regulations and go to mass or confession. Anyway, yelling and spankings didn’t encourage that thing to stay on my head, my person or in the Book Bag (another story here).

I lost it again.

I was confined to my room on a Saturday. One of the few not spent in detention. It was a piercingly beautiful San Francisco day. The breeze kissed your soul. My room overlooked a tiny yard, but it was a real yard. There was a weeping willow and a big ‘pond’ to water the birds. There were flowers all along the fence line shouting for attention. The unruly crowd was kept from the putting green my dad grew, by an orderly concrete pathway that encircled the green. My mother had a prize rose bush that grew up the back of the two story building. The canes were tree trunks and the thorns were spikes.

There was a dinky little porch, complete with a yellow corregated fiberglass roof, just big enough to shelter the back door. I suspect it was Daddy-Built. There was a pipe that ran up beside the porch to disappear in the roof line above. The porch, my prize, was between my window and my parents window. There was a fairly good distance between each window and the roof of the porch. The best thing about being a kid is nothing can go wrong and you can fly.

I hate long blogs so I am going to stop for now. See you at the porch another day.