I’ve spent two hours cleaning off the trampoline. A ridiculous amount of time to exhaust on
such a project but I deemed doing the work necessary when I looked out the
window this morning and observed a sagging mat.
After tromping through a foot and a half of snow, I discovered that
under the accumulated white stuff on the jumping mat there was a layer of
frozen ice. This had to be removed
especially with the prediction of six more inches by evening.
Ever try to stand on an icy trampoline and broom it
off? The title to a Simon and Garfunkel
song came to mind: “Slip Slidin’ Away”.
When taking a break from this slippery job, I lay on my back observing
and feeling the snow feather down from an opaque gray sky.
(Interruption for a grammar lesson: In present tense I lie on the trampoline but in
the past tense lie becomes lay – no wonder folks get confused and Bob Dylan did
not get it right - But in his defense Lie Lady Lie just doesn't sound right.)
The flurry reminded me of ashes from a past bonfire, debris
of different sizes lifting to the sky only to scatter down all over me. On the trampoline in the cold daylight, the
flakes were large, some small; all steadily landing on my eyelashes, nose and
tongue. Soon these gentle ice flakes
turned to minuscule icy spears. I felt
like Gulliver being lanced by the inhabitants of Lilliput. I remembered the illustration of Gulliver,
the prisoner, with his hair and appendages tied to the ground. The continuous barrage of stinging frozen javelins lasted about five minutes before turning into a consistent downpour of
large, white flakes.
If I remembered
correctly, Jonathan Swift presented the main character as gullible. Contemplating that thought while whiteness
gathered in the folds of my coat, I had to admit that I have been that
character in life. Sometimes losing the “I”
in the “we” and I am often not sure who the “I” (that is me) is. Will I know when I am she?
Later, I continued to reflect while cracking the icy layer
into chunks before sliding slabs over to the opening in the net and tossing
them to the ground. The remaining snow was
shoved off the mat with a push broom while I hummed Paul Simon’s tune, Slip Slidin’ Away. I want to know I am wiser; I’m not sure
nature cares. And if Swift is right, I’ve
been born corrupt and I too will slip slid away.
