Mama’s KING-SIZE bed is “off-limits”.
Well, it’s supposed to be.
So, we should never go in there and jump on it’s ‘kingness’ . . . but
we do -
That’s an awful lot of surface area to deny a kid -
(so we did).
The springs are like new and the bounce’ll have ya
right up there near the ceiling,
feeling the moonscape
of the gold-glitter acoustic plaster with our finger-tips.
She was always afraid of some disaster;
“Consider this - you’re going to break that bed!”
She’d threaten, she’d reason, she’d nearly burst ~
it was jumping season:
she’d have to catch us first.
* After the house was remodeled in 1962, our unsuspecting parents were slow to realize how convenient their new floor plan was for our clandestine operations. The traffic pattern from the hall to the master bedroom and bath to the hall again and finally to the den was a circle, not unlike a race track. Their brand new bed regularly served as a literal spring board for our indoor activities.
Things forbidden always taste sweeter, and avoiding detection required excellent listening skills while mid-air between jumps on the oh-so accommodating box springs. We listened for mama’s shoelaces on her tennis shoes clicking as she came down the hall. Once we heard that, we knew we were good for only one more jump before flying out to safety into the new master bathroom. From there we listened, breathless, for her footsteps on the pink shag carpet to stop at the edge of the bed where she always stood for a second, eying the disheveled bed spread. Finally we could slip out of the bathroom and plop ourselves innocently in front of the t.v. without even looking winded.
~ By CTanner: The Jellico Project/Memoirs of growing up in the '60's
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