“Granpa, high-yer, sing high-yer.” Giggling from both me and three-year-old Thomas continued as the old tyre was brought back to deliver an almighty swing. Wheeeee – Thomas’ long golden hair swept back off his face, as the tyre, Thomas and his angelic features flew through the late summer twilight.
My memory wandered. Grandpa had bought my favourite, Vanilla ‘Wafer’. The nurse told me off for dripping it onto the sheet. I had a clunky, heavy plaster on my arm, too!
Sixty-five years earlier, I had had those same bird-like fantasies, flying, weightless, up, up and away, higher than the Faraway Tree, as my cousin – she was only four – did the ‘heavy lifting’. Oh, how I flew!
It was on one of those flights that I honed my plans to construct a parachute. I would need much higher ground than the swing afforded, maybe one of the big banksias, or from the top of the fence, or the shed roof? I anticipated that finding a suitable launch site wasn’t going to be an issue.
The sheet off my bed would make the best ‘chute. I had studied the picture in the Biggles Annual – yep, the sheet would do the trick. I still had to figure out how to get me and the sheet harnessed together, as contrary to the pictured ‘blueprint’, I didn’t have silk string.
I took my plan onto the bus, and to school. During recess, I discussed my ideas with Frankie and Sylvie, my two best mates. Sylvie suggested cutting holes in the sheet for my arms. Mmmm that might work. I wondered if Mum would notice? Unlikely, as all she ever did was throw them on the line. I could put the bits back into the holes before she’d see.
“Granpa, sing high-yer. Sing high-yer, Granpa” came an exasperated intrusion into my reverie. I was back on the job, getting that tyre to arc beautifully from the salmon gum on my daughter’s bush block. The evening light mellowed our surrounds, even tamed the pesky, biting midges.
My hero always wore a ‘chute. It was hanging around his bum, as he climbed into his Sopwith Camel. The harness? I had it. I would tie a couple of loops in the edges of the sheet, put my arms through and ‘hey Presto’, job done!
I was going to need a couple of days to work everything through. The weekend would give me the perfect break. I discussed my plans with my cousin. She had agreed to be my ‘Jump Sergeant’. The schedule was set for after school next Tuesday.
The sandpit under the Banksia was the launch site. I had the sheet with the corners tied off, my arms through the loops and I climbed, with difficulty, up onto the limb. I didn’t get the same magical feeling that I got when I read Biggles, but the Jump Sergeant had started the count down. “Eight, five, four, seven, three, two, one, ready-set-go; chocks away!” I jumped.
“Gran-paaaa. Sing high-yer”.