Climbing
Katherine D. Bennett
(First published in the Lathrop News August 21, 1997)
Some children love to play ball, others love to run; I loved to climb. Anything and everything. As a toddler, my mother was hard pressed to keep my feet on the ground: Once she found me on top of the refrigerator; countless times she had to rescue me from the apple trees in our back yard. Once, I even managed to make it to the roof where my father was reshingling our house. The impulse to climb grew as I grew, and by the time I was a young teenager my parents had resigned themselves to having their daughter perched on the roof and leaping off the tops of things.
(My mother, eventually, decided it wasn’t an entirely bad thing. I was handy at retrieving Frisbees and balls and kites from high places.)
One day, when I was a blossoming fourteen year old, my mother sent me to the roof to trim a scraping tree branch. My father had, over the years, loaned our ladders to various neighbors, so we were without one. Who needed a ladder when there was a compulsive climber in the house? I simply piled up some boxes, stood on them, then shimmied to the roof top. No problem. In the process of the climb, my pants caught on a rough edge and sustained a pretty significant tip. Again, no problem; I’d just change after I jumped down.
I trimmed the errant branch and went to the edge of the roof, preparing myself for the delicious moment of flight, the jolting roll on the grass, the triumphant, shaky stand. The few moments in invincibility and aliveness.
I looked over the edge. I froze. I couldn’t jump. Gingerly, I tried to bring myself to climb down. I froze. I couldn’t move. In a panic. I called to my mother to find a ladder. My mother was stunned, but hurried inside to make some phone calls. Miserably, I sat down, pulled my knees up under my chin and wrapped my arms around my legs.
My friend, Mike, pedaled up and yelled, “Hey! Kat! Come on! Let’s ride bikes!”
“Oh! Mike!” I wailed, “I’m stuck! Get a ladder!”
“Yeah, right!” Mike glowered up at me, the hurt evident in his eyes. “If you don’t want to go, just say so!” Angrily he sped away.
Mom came back outside, her face struggling with concern and humor. “Honey,” she said, “no one was home that I called. But, don’t worry, help is coming. I called the fire department.”
Oh, no! This was bad! My fervent hopes that only a small vehicle with a discreet fireman or two, and just one adequate ladder were crushed a few agonizing minutes later when I heard the screaming siren crescendoing closer. A full sized pumper truck, bristling with firemen screeched to a dramatic stop in front of our house. Curious neighbors popped out of their houses. This was bad. My pants were ripped. This was very, very, bad!
Needless to say, the whole thing became quite the event. The firemen, thinking I was a four year old, instead of fourteen, and had come equipped with teddy bears and candy. They really thought the whole thing was hysterical. My friend, Mike came pedaling up and said, “Hey! I wish Ida known you were really stuck. Ida brought your dad’s ladder back!”
....Funny, as vivid as that day is in my memory, do you know what I remember more? I remember the crazy quilt view of yards and fences, the easy feel of wind in my hair, the nearness of birdsong, the joy of being in high places. All in all, I’d rather be stuck at the top than stuck at the bottom.