I was imaginative. (Not psychopathic.)
All of my life I have been fascinated with flying. And not airplane flying, ’cause everyone can do that. I mean Superman flying. That is the superpower I would pick. …Or telekinesis. Same diff, really. Anyway, I have always wanted to fly. When I was a child I frequently would be found running around outside (my mother insisted that being outside was healthy and good for you, but I think she just wanted some privacy to read and eat Cheez-its and drink tea (not that I blame her, I’m sure I was a holy terror)) with a towel pinned beneath my chinny chin chin, jumping off of picnic tables, swingsets, sheds, tree stumps, and off the (lower) branches of trees. I had an active imagination.
Unfortunately, it turned out.
Until I was 6 we lived in Yarmouth, Maine, in a little clapboard house on Cumberland Ave. It was a split level, and off the kitchen there was a deck about 6 feet off the ground. The kitchen sink faced a window that looked out over the side of the deck. That way, mom could do dishes and watch us outside.
One lazy hazy crazy day of summer I was outside, cape on, flying around the porch. Brandy was our miniature poodle, and she was on the porch sitting in the sun, being happy and doggish. In my four-year old glee I picked up Brandy and carried her around, pretending to fly with her. It was idyllic. It was a perfect childhood afternoon.
Until my mother saw little Brandy fly by the kitchen window.
I had decided that Brandy could fly, and ever so gently tossed her over the side of the porch railing into my sandbox. I remember she flew so serenely, so quietly, until plopping into the sandbox. She was unhurt, thank goodness. But let me tell you, I was not.
I did not understand that Brandy probably could not fly, and that she might get hurt on the way down. But, Mom understood. And soon after, my spanked butt understood.
Now I am, of course, wracked with guilt about hurling my little pooch over the edge. But then? I was just helping her to fly. Who wouldn’t want that?