THIS IS THE MOST consequential election in U.S. history. The fate of the earth hangs in the balance. But it has nothing to do with trampolines, so I’m pretty much ignoring it until I can walk upright again. Despite a lifetime of wisdom that should have warned me from my approaching folly, I succumbed to the pleading of a 9-year-old to join her on a contraption that, not unlike the guillotine, probably resulted in the demise of its inventor. (I can’t confirm this, but it would have served him or her right.)
Before you roll your eyes in complete lack of sympathy, it must be stated that this particular granddaughter is not to be denied. Unlike, say, your daughter or granddaughter, whose unremarkable lives (in comparison) will likely not be interrupted by moments of excellence or distinction, this one is very special, because, you know, she’s my granddaughter. A brilliant intellect, an accomplished artist and athlete, a passionate lover of the natural world, when she says “jump,” one simply asks, “how high?” And on a trampoline, “how high” can be considerable.