Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy

   When I was a kid, my dad bought a trampoline.  These days, it's not that big of a deal because they are sold in lots of places.  But back then, we were the only family in the neighborhood (and possibly the only family in our whole grade school) with a trampoline.
   Dad bought it at a surplus store.  I loved going there with him.  Most of the stuff was Army surplus, but there were lots of other things there as well, the trampoline being one of them.  We loaded the parts up in the back of a pickup and drove home with no idea how to put it together or even if we really had all the parts.
   We dragged the four sides into the back yard and figured out how to put the frame together.  That was the easy part.  Next came the springs and mat, which at that time was made of interwoven webbing, sewn together at intersections so a person wouldn't fall through.  The first few springs were easy enough to do, attaching them to the frame and then to the mat.  The last ones were the really difficult ones, and we had to use leather gloves to guard against pinching.
   Once it was all together, the fun began!  But my dad had some definite rules.  First and foremost, none of our friends could jump on the trampoline unless an adult was present (this rule was eased once my sister and I demonstrated that we were competent enough to teach others how to be safe on the trampoline).  Also, only one person at a time was allowed on the trampoline at a time (trial and error and some conks on the head between my sister and I brought this rule into being).  Ideally, we needed to have one person on each side (that meant four people plus the jumper), especially if we had a novice jumper.  Falling between the springs was really unpleasant.
   We had the trampoline for many years.  In the summer it was in our back yard, and rules were eased some as more kids in the neighborhood demonstrated their skill levels.  During the winter, my dad had it in the field house at Mt. St. Mary's High School, where he taught and coached.  He used the trampoline as an off-season method to improve the agility of his football players.  I was, as with many of his experiments, the guinea pig as he developed drills.
   For one thing, with a ceiling that was maybe ten feet high and the trampoline mat probably four feet off the floor, you had to jump on your knees.  He invented different drills to do.  One was to bounce and go from knees to belly to butt and to turn around and land facing the opposite direction as he called out how to land and which way to face.  It was a cool ab workout without doing situps or crunches.  Another drill was to be bouncing facing the opposite way and he'd call out, "Ball!"  We'd have to turn in midair, spot, and then catch a football he'd thrown.  The worst, I mean most challenging, was when he'd throw a medicine ball which we had to catch and throw back as soon as possible (hanging onto a medicine ball was potentially painful, so we learned quickly to throw it back quickly).
   I miss that trampoline and those bouncy days.  Maybe some day I'll get a trampoline again. 

Bees Don't Play Croquet Nicely

   When I was a kid, we would set up our croquet set in the back yard during the summer and while away the time playing croquet.  The problem back then was when the clover flowers blossomed the honeybees came to visit.
   Usually, we were careful.  After a bee sting on the bottom of the foot one summer, it became common practice to wear flip-flops (until a bee sting on the side of the foot) and then sneakers.  Once, though, I guess I must have thought that bees only go after feet.  Either that, or I was just plain cocky because I knew I wouldn't get stung again.
   I'd watched a golf tournament recently, and decided I'd line up my shot like a golfer.  I got down into a crouch and then leaned over to the side, trying to eyeball the perfect shot.  I put my hand down to steady myself and - ZING!
   Bees sting hands, too.  And they don't share the croquet field very nicely.

Tar Bubbles

   The heat this summer reminded me of hot summer days when I was a kid.  After breakfast, we were sent outside and couldn't come back in until lunchtime.  We'd ride our bikes around our block, neighboring blocks, and sometimes several blocks away into the unknown - neighborhoods where the dogs didn't know us and would chase us as we rode past at breakneck speed.
   Then we'd head back to our neighborhood and find other things to do, maybe having water pistol fights, running through neighbors' sprinklers, and getting chased out of the yards of the older people, scattering in different directions.  Sometimes we'd play catch - something I could do all day long, given the chance.
   But on really hot days, we'd pop the bubbles in the tar in the street.  On our street, we didn't really have potholes, because cracks got filled with tar before they got larger and became holes.  And on warm days, the tar would soften, then bubbles would form as it got hotter.  We'd pop the bubbles with our toes.  And sometimes, if the tar was fresh, I remember getting a little of it, working it in my fingers to get little bits of grit out, and then chewing on it.
   Bad idea?  Probably.  But it was something to do on a hot summer day.