Early Inheritance
It is after midnight in Boston when I meet my son, Jeff, at his Beacon Hill apartment. Following a few beers, he shows me his notebook of goals for the year, pointing to “take Mom skydiving for her 50th.” I smile, but can't suppress the notion that “collect early inheritance” could be at the bottom of this. It might just be time to start acting my age.
Jeff favors adventures over jewelry for special family occasions. On my 40th, he took me Rollerblading at Lake Tahoe. A few years later came a spine-shaking escapade on mountain bikes. Such docile earthbound pursuits would not do for my semicentennial.
The sky is cloudless and the sun warms our faces as we pull into the Pepperell Skydiving Center in Massachusetts. Red, yellow, purple and green parachutes billow down from above the 60-acre expanse. Smoke from blazing barbecues fills the air, and spectators lunch and lounge in lawn chairs as they watch friends and family descend into a drop zone. Something is making my stomach clench, and it isn't pork ribs. I'm too old to be doing this.
Jeff quickens his pace and propels us forward to the registration desk, where we sign in and then are escorted to the office for a “training” video of the tandem dive process. Soon it's raining legal documents —— initial in 22 places, sign all forms, and provide emergency names and phone numbers. Remarkably, the skydiving center doesn't require a lien on my house in case a moron like me kills herself in spite of the extraordinary safety precautions.
Jeff will not be frightened or deterred. He insists we have a constitutional right to leap into the void.
After watching the video, we proceed directly to wardrobe. Our black and blue jumpsuits are cool. Jeff emerges as if he just strolled off the set of Top Gun. I don my helmet and goggles for the flying ace effect —— and to hide the worry lines.
Outside, we park ourselves in the bleachers with a group waiting to be summoned. Instructions are reviewed； words of encouragement are expressed. A loud cheer arises.
Since this is a beginner's dive, a pro jumps with each participant. I'll be strapped to Tim, a senior crew member, a serious-looking blond in his late 30s. We chitchat； he wishes me “Happy Birthday,” adding he wouldn't have guessed I was turning 50. A perceptive, engaging man, I reflect, and rather cute. My heart is racing for other reasons, however.
Tim and I board the plane as Jeff and his pro are marshaled off to another flight. I look back in panic. Jeff hollers, “Happy landing, Mom,” and gives me a thumbs-up. I reassure myself that separation might be sound management, since one of us will survive if the other plane goes down. Adjusting my helmet and goggles, I mutely recite an “Our Father.” The door snaps shut, and we lift off.
It is after midnight in Boston when I meet my son, Jeff, at his Beacon Hill apartment. Following a few beers, he shows me his notebook of goals for the year, pointing to “take Mom skydiving for her 50th.” I smile, but can't suppress the notion that “collect early inheritance” could be at the bottom of this. It might just be time to start acting my age.
Jeff favors adventures over jewelry for special family occasions. On my 40th, he took me Rollerblading at Lake Tahoe. A few years later came a spine-shaking escapade on mountain bikes. Such docile earthbound pursuits would not do for my semicentennial.
The sky is cloudless and the sun warms our faces as we pull into the Pepperell Skydiving Center in Massachusetts. Red, yellow, purple and green parachutes billow down from above the 60-acre expanse. Smoke from blazing barbecues fills the air, and spectators lunch and lounge in lawn chairs as they watch friends and family descend into a drop zone. Something is making my stomach clench, and it isn't pork ribs. I'm too old to be doing this.
Jeff quickens his pace and propels us forward to the registration desk, where we sign in and then are escorted to the office for a “training” video of the tandem dive process. Soon it's raining legal documents —— initial in 22 places, sign all forms, and provide emergency names and phone numbers. Remarkably, the skydiving center doesn't require a lien on my house in case a moron like me kills herself in spite of the extraordinary safety precautions.
Jeff will not be frightened or deterred. He insists we have a constitutional right to leap into the void.
After watching the video, we proceed directly to wardrobe. Our black and blue jumpsuits are cool. Jeff emerges as if he just strolled off the set of Top Gun. I don my helmet and goggles for the flying ace effect —— and to hide the worry lines.
Outside, we park ourselves in the bleachers with a group waiting to be summoned. Instructions are reviewed； words of encouragement are expressed. A loud cheer arises.
Since this is a beginner's dive, a pro jumps with each participant. I'll be strapped to Tim, a senior crew member, a serious-looking blond in his late 30s. We chitchat； he wishes me “Happy Birthday,” adding he wouldn't have guessed I was turning 50. A perceptive, engaging man, I reflect, and rather cute. My heart is racing for other reasons, however.
Tim and I board the plane as Jeff and his pro are marshaled off to another flight. I look back in panic. Jeff hollers, “Happy landing, Mom,” and gives me a thumbs-up. I reassure myself that separation might be sound management, since one of us will survive if the other plane goes down. Adjusting my helmet and goggles, I mutely recite an “Our Father.” The door snaps shut, and we lift off.