January 15, 2025 at 6:30 a.m.
Did you ever have a good idea that didn't pan out?
Once while sledding, I could not believe that all my cousins were finishing the downhill slide with a collision into the same pine tree. Since the crash looked painful, I opted to go around the conifer. Had I been there when they decided which slope was best suited for action, I would have known that hitting that tree kept them from sailing over the drop off and into the creek below. I might not have gotten so wet and cold. It was hardly the only mistake I ever made.
At Grandpa's we occasionally tied towels around our necks and ran hard enough to get our capes to flutter shoulder high behind us. Pretending to fly demanded more energy than it was worth so we sought new heights of adventure. One day we found ourselves at the tree where the rope dangled like a grapevine. It was tied to a sturdy limb and touched the ground below.
The initial competition involved trying to swing the highest, but that was too subjective …. and arguments ensued. It was followed by running and catching the rope and seeing who could land the farthest when it was released. For the most part, the results were more readily accepted, but that got boring - especially to the losers.
Then Andy had a great idea. He climbed the tree and stood on one of the lower limbs. When it was handed to him, he grabbed the middle of the rope, shoved off, swung as far as he could, and then let go. His reckless flight lasted for only a few seconds, but it allowed for a "Geronimo" as he launched himself. To say that I was envious was an understatement. Andy had stolen the day with his superb showmanship. The largest of the boys had glided gracefully. He had landed with ease. How could anyone top that?
After everyone made a few more jumps, I decided to up the ante. Andy was not the only daredevil on the Petty farm. With no regard for personal safety, I climbed higher up the tree than he had and asked for the rope. I intended to unleash my own echoing Tarzan imitation and to land in the next county. I would be remembered, and chronicles would be written.
The first two rope tosses were out of my reach, but after leaning forward I finally caught it. If I sat on the limb, I could get my hands on the very end. As I shoved off, I realized too late that I had seen the rope touching the ground. Before I had a chance to scream, my face slammed into dirt, and the rest of me followed. I did not dig a trench, but it felt like my chin had been used for a plow.
As has often been the case, the mark I made that day was not the one I had intended. I doubt that anyone else still thinks about the accident. I had not jumped the farthest. I had not awakened the jungle or disturbed the milk cow with a Greystoke yodel. The rest of the afternoon I found myself inside. Removing grit from my lips kept me out of contention for any glory.
(Adapted from “The Best Laid Plans,” pages 76-77, in Daffodils and Dog-ears by Larry Perkinson)