During the summer months, Ripley is sweltering and buzzing, giving one the sensation that they are living in a colony of bees. It is during these months that the most bizarre events transpire.

One summer, when I was nearing the age of nine, I became infatuated with the art of skipping rope. I am not quite certain as to what sparked my idle curiosity in this quaint pastime, but, whatever did, caused a fascination that spanned over almost an entire summer. One day, while errantly turning on a movie (The Secret Garden, I believe), I noticed Mary’s attachment to her jump rope- a gift given to her by a servant girl, Martha. I recall rewinding this majestic and ceremonious gift giving scene several times, watching closely the way in which Mary’s hands wound themselves tightly in the cord, and the way in which her hair floated and fell as she jumped. I was transfixed.

 After purchasing a suitable size jump rope, I began perfecting my craft. I spent long, languid days skipping in the heat, feeding off the compliments I received. There is something slightly egotistical regarding the mind of a nine year old, which was evidenced in my persistence to jump rope for hours.

“How adorable!”

“… I wish my child would skip rope instead of sitting inside watching TV all summer.”

The comments heightened my esteem and made my foreign art of jump rope seem

Quaint and pleasant. I began to view myself as a British knave, a child of high regard and importance. Militantly I jumped, watching people’s happy and wistful expressions. They seemed to call out to me, each face bearing a different message.

            “Jump! Excelsior!”

            “Ever higher!”

And so I did.

            Summer never seems to last as long as you want it to. Before you are able to progress onto your next scheme, commercials for back to school supplies have already aired on television, making your plans seem irrelevant in the yes of adults.

            As the last days of summer neared, I still took my place on the sidewalk, rope in hand. Before beginning, I paused. A grace note. A moment of silence. Whilst poised for action, a mini van pulled up. It was driven by a mother, blonde and slim. She was still close enough to youth to recognize the popular songs played on the radio, but distant enough from it to wear t-shirts with pithy quotes emblazoned across the front, such as “My mom’s a bomb!”, or “Smokin’ momma!”

            She rolled open the door, revealing a blonde haired preschooler strapped into a car seat. His hair was the same hue as hers. However, his was real, and hers was not. After he was released from the confines of the car, he studied me, as curios as I was of him. We met eyes, and regarded each other. Somehow, though not a word was exchanged, we both realized our status as children, and what was ahead of us as adults. When his mother spotted the jump rope in my hand, she looked at me, commanding my attention.

            “Well jump! That’s what he came to see you do!”

            She nodded as her child, then at me.

            And so I did.

            I jumped.