My career as a tightrope walker ended
one September afternoon when I was
a second grader in the 1940s at Reeb
Avenue Elementary School. I returned
to school grounds after going home for
lunch break. None of the playground
equipment, swings, monkey bars, sliding
board, interested me. I was bored with
their mediocre challenge, wanted
something more adventurous. The
chain-link fence encircling the school
grounds offered a significant objective.
I would walk the top rail.
Getting a foothold in the links, I climbed
to the top, hoisted myself up, and balanced
on the top rail. I remember taking a couple
of steps, then I saw polka dots and swirling
planets, found myself crawling up the alley
behind the school on my hands and knees.
The teacher on duty came running from
around the corner of the building, helped me
stand, and asked what I was doing. I gasped
that I’d been struck by second-grade-itis,
something I’d heard my dad holler at me.
I didn’t suffer the principal’s paddle.
I guess he thought having the breath knocked
out of me was punishment enough.
That night in bed, I replayed my escapade,
and of all the music in the world, my brain
kept hearing Bing Crosby and the Andrew
Sisters singing “Don’t Fence Me In.”
