Speaking of things that should've killed us (or at least broke some bones), when I was a wee lad (5 or 6?), I was obsessed with flying. I was always concocting (not so)elaborate ways to do so. The two I remember had to do with everyday household items and a very tall arborvitae tree next to the house right near our front door (basically, my own personal ladder to the roof of our single story [thank god] ranch home). My little bro (363 days younger, to be exact) would always be in tow. My first attempt was an
ingenious skydiving plot involving me, the edge of our roof, and an empty Wonder Bread bag (you know? The same bags you wore over your socks and under your winter boots so as to maximize your exposure in the elements while rocketing down the neighborhood ice alps on a metal saucer?). I mean, my GI Joe fared pretty well with that mylar parachute of his, so that Wonder bag should really do the trick! I step to the edge, extend the Wonder bar over my head, and wait for my brother's countdown. "...3, 2, 1, TAKEOFF!" My brother
swore that my decent was definitely slowed to a float right before I flattened the rhododendron below.
The second attempt was even more
ingenious. We ascended the arborvitae to the roof and I had my brother Scotch Tape one half of our now useless checker board to each arm. I walked to the peak of the roof and waited for my brother's countdown. "TAKEOFF!" I ran down and dove off the edge in glorious swan-dive fashion. As I was pulling grass and turf out of my mouth, my brother
swore I caught air for a second there.
Again, I have a million of these, and as I write this, I'm truly
amazed that I have never suffered one broken bone in all my 56 years. Unscathed!
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