Middle-son John recently texted me this snippet he took in one of those bouncy-climby-noisy places kids love:

Grandson Cameron was having a ball, playing with new friends and, it seems, climbing.

I asked Cam a week or so later what he thought of that challenge.

“Well, Goose …” (he calls me Goose) “I discovered I still have acrophobia.”

John says the discovery was made when Cameron was about three stories up, so that seems to me more like a healthy respect for heights than a paralyzing fear.

It was just a few months ago that his fifth-grade class returned from a day-trip to St. Louis. One of their stops was the Arch.

You know, the Gateway Arch:

I asked Cam if his class took the tram to the top. His immediate response: “We calculated that 97 percent of us have acrophobia, so we remained on the ground.”

Oh, you come by this honestly, lad. (Truth be told, as I was looking at photos of the Gateway Arch, I had to walk away from the computer for a while. Goosie was getting woozy.)

Here’s a story for you about your dad, Cam:

If memory serves, this photo is from September 1998. I took John to the nearby Dale Fall Fest, thinking he’d ride the merry-go-round, play a few games, eat something deep-fried, and then we’d head home.

But this year was different. This year there was a climbing wall.

John, who was seven at the time, was thrilled at the very sight of it. He was determined to conquer that wall.

Meanwhile, I had the typical mother-conflict battling in my brain: Is that thing safe? Is he big enough? Shouldn’t I encourage him to take on a challenge, even if it’s one I would never take?

Well, it turns out he was big enough to make the climb, so John was harnessed up and began his ascent.

It really was marvelous to watch. And to listen. A crowd quickly formed.

“Hey! Look at that little kid! He’s climbing the wall – look at him go!”

I think it took about five Hail Marys (on my part) for John to reach the top. There was some sort of button to push up there, which activated a light and a buzzer or bell. Proof.

Now that I scrutinize it more closely in the photo, it sort of looks like a skull.

He made it!

I just talked to John on the phone and he remembers they rappelled him down.

I asked: So do you not have a fear of heights?

His response was immediate:“Oh, I do!”

Then I got woozy all over again as we reminisced about climbing multi-story stairways up to the top of waterslides. Even though there was no way to fall between the steps or the railings, it sure felt like disaster was just seconds away. But each time, we managed it, hooting and hollering on the way back down.

Heading back two generations, it always amazed me to hear about the activities my parents enjoyed while on trips during their retirement years. One was a helicopter ride over a volcano in Hawaii. Another was a hot air balloon ride in Arizona. “The landing was a bit bumpy,” Mom recalled. “But we had a nice picnic brunch afterwards.”

Apparently Mom was not traumatized, but smoothly moved on to a tour of a cactus garden:

A Phoenix Morning

This bright morning
the schoolchildren’s cries
are birds and flowers
in the cactus garden

the names enchant them
octopus owl’s eye
organ pipe cactus

early this morning we were in the air
ballooning over the coral cholla

here in the garden
the children call its cousins’ names
totem pole teddy bear
strawberry hedgehog
disarming briefly in their joy
this graphic garden

~ joan vayo, February 21, 1997

Mom did have such a fear of water (I blame her unnamed cousin) and escalators (her mother caused this one – don’t let your foot get sucked in!), it was nice to know she could enjoy some up-in-the-air adventures with no mention of acrophobia.

I do wonder if this second poem is autobiographical. I remember Mom pulling sleds, but not hopping on board for a thrill:

There Is No Child With Her

There is no child with her. Halfway along
her climb she stumbles, tightening her hand
around the rope. The boots are much too big,
she knows, the coat too long. Colder, too,
than she remembers, and the hill much higher.
And late, much later than she planned; even
the sled is smaller than she knew. She turns
her head away from wind; her free hand reaches
up to pull the scarf about her face, her years protesting.

How far, she thinks. Reaching the top at last she turns
and drops upon the sled, to rest. The height affects her
and she shivers, and doubts herself again. With stinging
eyes she sees the sun about to go. And then below her,
from the woods come children with their sleds; they run.
Her fear astounds her. It is now or never; it is now.

~ Joan Vayo, January 15, 1972

I sure hope Mom took that sled ride long ago. Oh, and Cameron – if we ever get a good snowfall – come on over to Goose and Papaw’s and we’ll try out our toboggan on that hill near our house.

“A Phoenix Morning” © 1997 and “There Is No Child With Her” © 1972 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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