Susiej

There was something about the way he stood at that window that I found odd. Ignoring tragedy is one way to deal with it, I suppose.  But was this really the right time to winterize the windows?  Nails were stuck between his teeth, his face grimacing as he struggled to get his shoulder underneath the window frame to hold it up while he fixed the splintered wood. These older homes never run short on projects.

In the kitchen, the table was covered with a bright, cheery, stripped fabric, with a dainty trim of tiny candy green apples. While he was busy sweating, she was making new curtains for the girls’ room. The fabric was carefully spread out, the seams perfectly aligned, the sewing machine set up to make the final stitch before she’d clear the table for dinner — the soup that was bubbling on the back burner.

In the living room, on the sofa, sat the apple of their combined eyes. The apple was sitting up, his color was surprisingly good, his eyes clear and he was beaming. Strange how a sickness can disguise itself so well under the simple flush of a cheek, tricking us into believing everything will be alright. Lately, it seems, all of their combined efforts to give help has bitten them back. They’ve worked hard; and there efforts seem to be fruitless. The cure,  if and when it comes, will need to come from someplace farther and deeper than the souls they carry within them.

She looks tired, and washed out. Yet, I see peace in her tiredness; but it is not a peace that has come without war. There is a crispness and clarity in her eyes borne out of long days and nights of prayer without ceasing; and probably some good clean living mixed in for good measure. I see a resignation in her eyes that I have never seen before.

Outside, as I turned to leave and say goodbye, I could still see him in his ragged t-shirt at the upstairs window, working away. This was his day-off from the office, and he had reserved this day to knock out projects like this one around the house. He can’t hear my words with the window closed, as he seals the gaps in preparation for winter’s winds.

I remember now a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. I see the fierceness in Mitch Brenner (Rod Taylor), when he wore that white buttoned-down shirt in the final scene, with nails stuck between his teeth and a hammer in one hand. He was searching the bungalow for every crack and gap. Then, he slammed the hammer down, and sealed each one shut.

When I arrived here today, I may have thought the man in the grungy t-shirt was simply doing his inappropriately-timed winterizing chores; but now I know he was sealing out something much stronger than winter’s winds; he’s busy sealing out tragedy.  And no, he doesn’t have a moment to spare.

Sunday Scribbling: A Winter’s Tale

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Now, I will agree with you, that nobody likes to jump out of bed at midnight, after you just got to sleep, because the wind is howling like a bunch of dervishes, and the tornado sirens are blaring. Worse yet, you have to go into the rooms of those jumping monkeys of yours, who are finally still in their beds, and rouse them out of sandman land, terminating peace and quiet.

Although there are many things about having my family room in the basement that I do not like; there is much to be said for having two nice full-length sofas to curl up on while you watch the storm pass on the TV’s radar. I know you’re not supposed to be watching TV during a storm; but my husband can’t resist such a temptation. While the radar storm graphics, with bright orange and red hot spots are very exciting, nothing can compare to watching a TV meteorologist chatting away in breathless tones with his other meteorology friends, as they discuss, what could be the storm of the century.

Why is it, I wonder, at 12:14 a.m., do the meteorologist have to run from their homes, wearing suits and ties, to cover the storm? The person who is “on-duty” has got it all under control anyway. It’s not like a baby’s coming, and we need to doctor here so we can push. Alas, I realize, this is what they’ve been trained for. This is their big moment; and the drama of the night is nothing short of that Hollywood movie, about the Tornado Chasers. Even though there is really nothing the weathermen can do to stop the storm.

Then it occurs to me that the TV weathermen, who are issuing out cautions about going to the northeast corner of the basement, interior closet or bathroom if you don’t have a basement; never once mention the safety precaution about not turning your TV on. They did mention the phone once. That’s bad; you can die if lighting strikes the phone, they said.

Still, they use the phone anyway, because they’ve got men and women out on the scene to describe what they’re seeing. “Rain coming down in sheets,” or “Lightning light up the entire sky like it was daylight,” and “Flooding.”

It was surreal to watch that red dot of the storm move right on top of the map where we live. I pointed this out to my 12-year-old, who responds with, “But I don’t hear anything.” That’s what you need to be worried about, as I explain the meaning of the phrase; the calm before the storm.

I’m tired, and with two little boys wrapped tight around me like a pretzel, pillows propped under us and blankets, I decide to stop answering my 12-year-old’s questions about the storm and get some sleep. However, this is difficult to do. The weathermen are just too excited about this storm to ignore. I try, and I end up hearing snippets:
“You looked scared when you came into the studio.”
“I was; I’ve never seen a wall cloud that big before…”
“Just kicked up out of nowhere, with incredible force.”
“Seeing some flooding.”
“You looked so frightened.”

We cannot go back upstairs to sleep. There are more storms coming behind this one; and this one is unpredictable. It has “hooks” the meteorologists say; those can swirl into dangerous tornadoes. I try to drift off to sleep, safe in the basement, but then I think about people I know living in each suburb they mention; are they OK? Are they watching this same blabbering I’m watching? What about the elderly people next door; I know they can’t make it down stairs. What about any elderly woman living by herself who can’t make it down the stairs by herself; and what if water is running into her basement? I think about the people who don’t have finished basements, with babies and toddlers, trying to stay comfortable. I think of relatives in towns and counties farther out; where the storm has already passed through, or where the storm is headed. Are they all OK? Are they worried about us?

The kicker of the whole night is when the TV weathermen start reading viewer emails. “George here says he couldn’t even see anything in his back yard.” “Melissa wrote in and said the lightning lit up the whole sky.” They encourage us to hurry up and send our photos of the storm so they can show them on the airwaves; the storm coverage is not complete without the vision of the readers. I’m flattered they’ve asked for my contribution; but at a time like this, I’d much rather rely on the experts to tell me if that hook that’s forming at the bottom of the storm cloud is something I need to be concerned about. Still, I know this is just another ploy to keep the ratings up. If my Aunt Betty calls me to tell me she sent a picture to the TV station; I’ll stay and wait for them to show Aunt Betty’s picture.

Who is on their laptops at a time like this? More accurately, they’re on the laptop AND the TV. And who has their Nikon out, uploading photos, and emailing them?

They’re missing the whole beauty of the storm. The gathering together of the people that are closest to you to provide comfort, security, and the necessary task of erasing fears. Are they quietly sending a prayer to their friends and family for their safety? Have they paid attention to that yearning to let family and friends know that they’re OK? In the morning, my Mom used to always call, what time did the storm hit, how much I did or didn’t sleep, and how many limbs were down. This silent caring and pondering about our love for others is that elusive experience we all want at Christmas; the part that always comes up missing, because we get too caught up in the festivities; the presents and the food. And here it is; the magic of Christmas comes sneaking in like a thief in the night, in the middle of summer; and we hardly notice it’s here.

There is a quietness in the center of every storm; a calm that envelops you to remind you of the very things that matter most in your heart. This is the silver lining in the midnight rain clouds.

I barely got back to sleep the rest of the night. The lightning was too intense, and the accompanying “raining in sheets” tormented my mind with images of flooding, the sump pump running all night. I’ve seen more darkness in the middle of a firework show. Still, it was a night I won’t soon forget. Neither will the weathermen, I’m sure.

We’re back from the lake to take care of some necessary doctor’s appointments.

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My Junior year of high school was my best. An outsider would probably attribute my joy to the fact that I had one of the leading roles in our high school musical, but there were other factors. Things like getting my driver’s license. Geometry was over and done with, leaving me to pursue funner stuff, Algebra and Trigonometry. At that point, I knew which high school teachers I could count on to let us get away with goofing off, and which ones to avoid. I was settled now in my role as first chair, as the director gave me the role of last-minute tunings, on stage, before he appeared at our band concerts. Now, the hallways at school were filled with younger faces who were much more naive about things; the way I was two years earlier. In a word, I developed a sense of power and confidence — in high school — of all places.

Perhaps this was what gave me the confidence needed to not only read for the script for the lead in the Spring of my Junior Year, but also to sing. Alone. Sing. All by myself in front of peers and classmates — and soon — their parents and families. Leads were to go to the seniors, as a courtesy. But, by gosh, they couldn’t let me slip away, so they gave it to me as a Junior. I had talent.

As the Junior year left, my senior year brought the opportunity for the senior class play. Auditions took place in the fall. Of course, with the confidence I had built up by this point, my role, was in the bag. Except, that I didn’t make it. I didn’t even make the choir. As I scanned the list, posted in the hallway bulletin board, I looked for clues… did everyone who starred in the musical last year get rejected? No, not everyone. I tried to make some kind of logical connection to understand why they didn’t choose me. I must have preformed horribly last year. I did something terribly wrong. Shame and embarrassment descended my shoulders, and every inch of breathing space around me. Luckily, the final school bell had already rang for the day, and I was alone in the hallway. I took off, before anyone had a chance to see me. I needed to get to my own room, with the door locked, fast.

Except, my pesky younger brother had already seen me, and he was high-tailing it behind me. Couldn’t wait, I figured, to tease me on this one. Because I had a head start, I made it home before he had the chance to pelt me with taunts about not making it in the play. When I got home, he worked his way around to look me in the eye. Here it comes, I thought.

“Susie,” he said. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I saw you didn’t make it and I was trying to find you in the halls at school to see if you were OK.”

The ache in my heart to reach the privacy and safety of my own room soon opened and gave way as I considered that maybe I could wallow in self-pity out in the open, in every room of the house. I forgot about the play. Our parents were recently divorced, and while I zoned in denial, my brother realized, before me, that we needed a new set of operating rules. One that didn’t include our favorite pastime, fighting like cats and dogs. We may only have each other, as uncertainty about the future loomed. This was the olive branch. Like mine, his eyes had tears; hurt that I didn’t get a part. More than ever did I want that part in the play; just give me that part because I can’t bear to see him suffer. I don’t remember feeling so much hopeless sadness since Mom gave our new kitty away one day while we were at school.

My senior year wasn’t much fun. The sense of confidence I built in my Junior year got knocked down in a series of doubts centralized by one single question that was never answered, “Why not me.” Maybe I should have asked, and learned. Looking back, I know, as a parent, I would have found out. Harmless miscommunication can do great damage, and someone should step in and help clear the air.

But, I did have a renewed sense of family. From that point on, I walked through the hallways at school knowing I had an ally I never new existed before. My brother. We’re still close like that.

I think its only appropriate that I write about this today, as Brook on American Idol, I learned has been voted off the show. I have never watched American Idol, but friends, neighbors, and complete strangers have been stopping me on the street to say, “You remind me of Brook.” I hear she has long hair, I say. “Still, you look like her,” they say.

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I tend to wrap myself so tight around decisions, trying my best to foresee every possible outcome of each side of the issue. This, of course, leads to paralysis… or indecisiveness. I look hard, I pray, I meditate, I think. Less than I should, I talk to other people. Even though talking seems to help the most, I rarely talk, as I am a bit isolated in my world of children now. Or maybe just because I’m thinking too hard to talk.

Some days, a decision I made three years ago about one of the boys will come barrelling down so hard on me today, that I realize now, was a big mistake. I am wounded when this happens. Worse, it makes the decisions that are facing me today seem all that more insurmountable. That mistake begins to weigh heavily on my future decisions.

Some people, wisely, I guess, use their blog as a forum to search for answers; to gather opinions from others as what they should do. The blog-sphere does, usually, respond generously with help, solutions, advice and support. The perfect “village that raises the child.” I like to come here, fresh to the page, with a solution perfectly in mind, undistracted, unfettered about what to do; whether or not I know yet if I’m right or wrong. (Please, by all means, feel free to give me advice anyway, as I am hopelessly indecisive, and your opinion could greatly turn the tide.)

This morning, rain was blessing our earth with its earthy smells, the wild noise of splashes, and trees brushing against the house as wind blew. The sounds meant that we wouldn’t be rushing a boy out at 7:40 this Saturday morning, in uniform, to lacrosse practice. We could all sleep, and get much needed rest, I thought. He woke anyway at 7, to work on homework. When the car pulled up at 7:40, and we were still blurry-eyed and in our jammies, (let me re-phrase that… my children have enlightened me that they are called b-jammes), I realized I had made another mistake. Apparently, there was lacrosse practice this morning, my son wasn’t ready, and this up-and-at-’em-Mom had driven out of her way to pick up my son. “Oh Hi. I’m sorry, I thought it was cancelled. He’s not ready… so just go ahead without him.”

He was working so intently on his homework, I wasn’t about to rush him around now and get him there. So, I stewed about the missed practice, not checking e-mails like I should have, my inability to be “up-and-at-’em” and of course, the Mom who had went out of her way.

Two hours later, I went to the computer, to dutifully check this time, to see if the 11′o clock practices were still on as well, as more rain came shooting down. Yes, they were still on… but what’s this? I see that the 8 a.m. lacrosse practice was cancelled, after-all. I was right. There was no lacrosse practice this morning.

Gratefully, as time passes, more information and irrelevant facts that were hidden are revealed, and the burnished brass begins to look more like gold. Bad decisions, miraculously sometimes turn out to be great ones. Even the ones that look wrong three years later can, with more time, begin to look like brilliant decisions. I’m not sure if we “grow around” those bad decisions like a tree will sometimes heal itself from injury, or that our path was clearly not meant for that choice.

I still can’t help but wish, everyday,  that the all-mighty creator, who is much wiser than me, would just step down and show me what is right for them, and we would gladly follow that dictum. A wise, kind minister told me, during a dark time, that the Bible promises to restore to us all that we’ve lost. I hope so. People are so full of faults, and we are prone to mistakes, naturally. We need something bigger than us, to hold everything together. That force that helps the tree grow around the injury, and to keep growing tall, despite the fault. What I hope for, and need, for my future, is that regardless of my mistakes, that there is an overriding power that will make everything turn out OK, after all.

He has his father’s grin. That confidence his Father has. “No worries. Everything will turn out OK.”

Sunday Scribbling asks, What is the future of the planet?

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It didn’t help that each and every one of the 1,000,000 dogwoods that grow in my old neighborhood were blooming today, as I drove through to drop off a check. A stupid, time-wasting errand that could have been avoided if I would have just put a stamp on the envelope and mailed it days ago. The houses, many stone, and wood, look luminescent under the filtered sunlight of the dogwood flowers. They do that; the flowers of the dogwoods cast a shimmer down on anything that stands beneath them, for that so brief time when they bloom. Rather than houses, they suddenly look like large-over-sized pillows, beckoning me to take a rest.

At our house here, we had an apple tree with a branch that swooped down low enough to leave you feeling that it was really a large arm about to pull you in for a big hug, but never could quite make it to becoming that real.

I begin to feel lucky for serendiptiously forgetting to mail that check at the precise time that the dogwoods are blooming. Still, I had completely forgotten how lucky we were to relish in this grass that is always lush and green because it’s always shaded, the dogwood blossoms, and the trees. The trees, and the woods that cluster in groups on ravines everywhere you turn. My four-year old was with me in the back seat. This is a world he’s never known, so I explained to him each and every landmark. I was really talking to myself, trying to draw out the memory that is etched within me, buried, under laundry, questions about what we’re having for snack today, and the refrains of will-you-buy-me-this.

Refusing to believe that Paradise is never really lost, I work hard at trying to remember the relaxed comfort of home I feel here as I drive past these houses where, I suddenly realize, I was living a much different life. I’m looking at the trees, but I’m really remembering pages of days, turning them one-by-one, as I try to reconstruct who I was when I was here. Of course, I believe, I was so much happier then. What is missing now, I wonder.

The roads curve, hiding the houses, so that you see more trees, before you see the next house. Certain neighbors must not see me today. As much as I will try to smile, and ask them how they’re doing, I might crack. If I let myself too close to that edge, I will fall apart like Humpty Dumpty and all the king’s horses won’t be able to put me together again. The egg holds the secret that I now realize I’m keeping, even from myself. I want to go back home. Then, they’ll spill those words they’ve been dying to say all along. Once back here, I won’t leave these trees again. But, I keep hearing those wise and true words in the back of my head, “you can never go home again.”

Still, Paradise is never lost, I tell myself. This is your new challenge. Create the happiness you’re remembering from this place within yourself now. As in the wise words of my yoga teacher, “make this your new normal.” Still, I can’t help but think, shallowly, “If I could live here again, I’d be happy all the time. This IS paradise.”

Up ahead, though I see a familiar car. Could it be he’s back? Or maybe, he just left it here for the school year. As I drive a little further, I see the familiar shape of our favorite babysitter walking his dog. The one who was once our neighbor. I can let my egg crack in front of him, I think, as I pull up beside him and roll down the window, smiling, to see him waving back. He’s here for just a short break, but will be coming back May 15 for the summer. Yes, he’d love to baby-sit. (Can I hold out until May 15, I wonder?) He got me up-to-date on a year’s worth of freshman transformation, the earthquake that hit his roommates this morning while he was here, and seeing that he’s still the same wonderful self. I realize now, I don’t need to compose myself, as I’m not going to crack, after all. We compare and contrast life here, versus life in my current neighborhood, where he worked as a lifeguard for a few years. He doles me out a compliment, collected from the other lifeguards, about being a cool, non-conforming Mom.

The thought of finally having regular scheduled kid-free time, washes a wave of relief over me, as I drive away, past more dogwood trees. I stop at my neighbor’s house to ring the doorbell to surprise her. She always lovingly calls me her long-lost daughter. Margie never lets me mope around or whine too much. She always draws me back in to raw practicality in an unfussy way. Sadly, it turns out they are not home today.

I turn to look behind me and point across the street. This used to be our house, I say to my son. The large lush lawn sprawls out in front, and I remember my oldest running through the sprinklers here. Now, this lawn needs the feet of four little boys to trample all over it, I selfishly think. I want to move here again, he says. I look at him, and see that the dogwood flowers are illuminating the sunlight that falls on his cheeks.

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You can laugh all you want at my hair in that picture; but it was 1989, and I thought I looked cool.

On a whim, truly that impulsive, I joined a bunch of friends for a two hour drive to go skydiving. The airport was tiny, and only flew propeller (prop planes). We arrived around 10 in the morning, and the planes were lined up getting fuel, and the professional sky divers were busy packing chutes for the day.

In one tent, there was a class going on for those people who were jumping free fall for the first time, either via a static line, or the accelerated free fall. We were bypassing those classes. We only needed minimal instruction; I was preparing to do a tandem skydive; the skydive that requires the barest, minimalist instruction. You can get your training, and jump — all in the same day! I would literally be going along for the ride with a master skydiver, (someone who has already been certified through thousands of jumps) as I would simply be harnessed to him throughout the entire jump. My master skydiver, Mike, would be responsible for packing the parachute. I had only one task: to pull the rip cord when he said “ready.”

The master jumper can help the novice jumper move through any fear or anxiety that just might creep up during the experience of falling at 120 mph from 13,000 feet.

Our friends, including my boyfriend, and I (now my husband) went through about 30 minutes of “ground prep training.” Parts of the parachute were explained, how to read the altimeter that would be strapped around my neck, and then to sign the “release papers.” I’ll admit; that got me for a second or too. If it was so safe… then, why bother with these release papers? Still, not one to be outdone by her peers, I signed and was ready to go.

I spent most of the rest of the afternoon waiting, and watching my friends, and other strangers float out of the sky. Later, I would often hear this question, “Why? What made you jump?” Looking back, this could have been the time I backed-out, but then, I knew, I would always be left wondering what it would have been like to fall 13,000 feet in the air. I would rather know, than wonder.

Dusk was falling when it was my turn to climb aboard the decrepit-looking propeller plane. My boyfriend and I were going up at the same time… wasn’t that sweet? I was introduced to my master jumper; a gray-bearded, blue-eyed fella named Mike who seemed more like 19 than 65. My stomach started to lurch. I was beginning to become aware that the safety of the earth would soon be leaving my own “force field,” and my hands began to sweat, and I began to take shorter breaths.

When the plane choked several times at take-off, I was starting to feel a bit of relief; maybe we wouldn’t make it up after-all. If the plane couldn’t make it up, I would be spared from what I now was beginning to consider the trauma, of skydiving. When the plane did lift off the ground, it continued its spitting and sputtering, and dipping as we continued out ascent to higher altitudes.

It’s bad enough to be just a tad bit afraid of your first skydiving experience; it’s quite another to add the possibility of engine failure to the ascent of your jump. I was quickly becoming a nervous wreck. A quiet nervous wreck. Still, the master jumpers, and the pilot in the plane were laughing about the old “Betsy’s problems” and were exchanging stories about the mechanic’s latest attempt to swap out pistons… I can’t remember anything else. I shut down and tried not to hear the discussion about the frailty of this plane’s engine’s woes.

I did manage to hear this, though: “At least we have our parachutes.” These men added a whole new dimension to my fear of flying. If anything would happen to the plane; they could always jump out and free-fall with their parachutes. “Safest way to land,” they would say. Interesting thought. Still, I remembered those scenes in my mind of all those master jumpers packing the parachutes. They were laughing; yet so focused on what they were doing. Did they do it right? What if they forgot something?

Miraculously, Betsy made it to 13,000 feet. Now it was time to get ready to go. My boyfriend said, “Here we go, Susie,” and he winked at me, grinning ear to ear. I didn’t need this distraction; the thought that I may never see the love of my life again. You know that feeling when you’re climbing to the top of the first hill on a roller coaster? When that happens to me, I want to get off that roller coaster right then. I really do. The pressure, the anxiety and the awareness of that pending drop is more than I can stand. That’s how I felt right then on the plane. I was paralyzed with fear, and the idea of standing up in this plane to become strapped to someone else was beyond my body’s physical and mental capability.

Despite my protest, I was lifted up by Mike, and he began his work of securing the parachute, and securing my body to his. That’s when I saw the hooks. Simple, metal clasp hooks — two of them attached to a nylon belt that wrapped around Mike’s back, across his waist, and then around my waist. That’s it. A simple hook that could break, give out, or accidentally become unfastened. And the parachute, of course, is on his back; not mine. I guess I had never really thought about this before, but I had assumed that we would be more securely attached. Maybe I had envisioned something sturdier — I couldn’t think of what — but I felt extremely vulnerable. When I heard the clasp click shut, I looked over and down to check them, and my stomach lurched. “Oh, God… what have I done?”

So I asked Mike, “If these clasps break, can I just wrap my legs around yours, pretzel-like, and still stay attached for the fall?” “No way, he laughed, “the force is too great.” Poor Mike. His comment elicited fear, and a knee jerk reaction. But first, the door of the plane opened, and my crazy boyfriend and his master jumper jumped out and disappeared. Our turn. Fear had already made my legs nothing less than concrete. Mike, as a master jumper, had evidently seen this reaction before. He was undaunted, as he moved me closer to the door, tightened our straps, and exited the plane; me attached. I kicked, in an attempt to wrap my legs around his, pretzel-style, just in case he was wrong about the force. I hurt Mike; I made his shin bleed… even through his fancy, sturdy parachute jumpsuit.

Mike was a nice, decent guy, just trying to help people out. I regret hurting Mike. And still, I don’t think I said I was sorry.

Now, I know what Mike knew: the only cure for my stomach’s anxiety, my wildly-beating heart, and my fear, was to get out of that plane and out into the fresh air. I do not use the word “fresh” here lightly. The air smells fresher up there. Still, as the air hit my face, and all I could see was the ground rushing up fast to meet me, I could … barely…. breathe. Thankfully, for Mike, I couldn’t move either; so he was safe from any future injury.

While the parachute was on Mike’s back; the rip cord was attached to me, and it was my job to read the altimeter and pull the cord at just the right moment. I must have taken the laissez-fare attitude, “you got me into this mess, you can get me out of it,” because Mike ended up fumbling around to read the altimeter and pulled the cord for us.

Once the cord was pulled, I think we went straight back up in the air higher briefly, before beginning to fall, slowly. By now, I was really enjoying the pristine, crisp cold air; the air smelled better than the freshest spring day you’ve ever known. And this feeling of buoyancy was nothing like I had ever felt before. In a word; breathtaking. The view, unhindered by tiny airplane windows and wing, is unlike anything you will ever experience when your feet are firmly planted on the ground.

Then, I think I had one of those epiphany moments; where I felt “one” with the universe, so grateful that I had experienced the earth from this vantage point. This “jumper’s high” is what keeps the skydiving sports so popular, as jumpers keep going back for more. I interviewed an astronaut once for a business client, and he confessed: “Astronauts do go through depression when they come back to earth; it’s hard to leave space, and once they knew the lightness of space. It’s very hard to live within the Earth’s pull of gravity, once you know the freedom of space.”

When I landed, light as a feather, I was never so happy to be back on earth.

I felt like I had been gone for months. When I called my Mom to tell her what I had done, she was mad at me, for not telling her before I left. She wanted the privilege of worrying about me all day. Logic only a mother can understand.

A few months later, Mike showed up in the newspaper. There was some accident, a fault with the parachute. Mike was the hero in the story. As the master jumper that he is, he maneuvered his body around during the tandem jump, so that the novice jumper fell on top of him, and Mike’s body took the full brunt of the fall. In the picture, he was sitting on the ground, after the fall, still smiling, miraculously suffering from only a broken leg from the incredible fall. Mike was a good man.

Sunday Scribbling’s prompt this week is fearless.

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