“Don’t go into the barn,” were the only words of caution my grandparents gave my brother, three cousins and me when we set out to explore their small farm outside Oakville, Washington. So, of course, the first thing we did was head to the barn, albeit via a circuitous route.
We’d walk in the opposite direction, down the shaded lane that was their long driveway, past the pump house and the horsetail marsh, then take a sharp left. The terrain was rugged on the hill behind their house, and we’d have to use the saplings studding it as hand-holds.
We’d run down the far side with our destination in sight: the rarely-used old barn. My brother pulled the barn door open just enough for us to wedge ourselves inside. We were silenced by the dusty, cool cavern.
From previous incursions, we knew there were mice and bats inside, but we were unafraid.
The five of us stood whispering our plans, when with a terrific shriek an enormous owl came careening our way from the rafters. Although I managed to remain continent, I tore out of that barn, never to return. My young relations were right behind me.
My memories of Oakville adventures are vivid. I danced with my cousins on the Oriental rug in the living room, twirling in my mother’s discarded wide skirts, to 78’s playing on the phonograph. There was always a lingering musty-tobacco smell from the damp location and Grandpa’s Bull Durham, and Grandma would turn her back as I piled mounds of sugar on the long-cooking oatmeal she prepared for breakfast. I felt safe and loved there.
The barn owl episode ended with hot cocoa at the kitchen table. There were no admissions of guilt, only sideways glances to my brother and cousins before thoughtfully sucking in the miniature marshmallows swimming in the mug, musing at our narrow escape.
Things have changed in fifty years. We’re hosting our three granddaughters, ages 12, 13 and 16, for four days for our annual Gramp Camp in Dallas. During this time, we encourage them to use sunscreen, wear helmets, and under no circumstances dive into our backyard swimming pool. They respectfully refrain from rolling their eyes.
But this year, we’re changing things up a bit. In addition to the live theater, museums, and Arboretum visits, this year we are entering the barn, figuratively speaking, with Indoor Skydiving.
When the IFLY facility opened in Frisco, north of Dallas, two years ago, I read the article in the Dallas Morning News and concluded this was dangerous. I have no desire to skydive outside, despite a former colleague’s encouragement. Skydiving was his hobby, and he’d go at a least twice a month, even participating in group formations. I really liked working with Rich, but could never understand his chosen sport.
Then my friend Tim, single father of two, posted pictures of his kids at an IFLY in Los Angeles. “Is it safe?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied, “and they’ll remember it forever.”
I didn’t have children of my own, so getting to be a grandmother – even if it’s a step-grandmother – has been a bonus of my marriage. They’ve grown up so fast, though, that I know our Gramp Camp adventures will come to an end before long.
I want them to have fond memories of their grandparents like I have, and to have some adventures.
The girls were very excited to be doing indoor skydiving. They already knew what it was and that there is one coming to their hometown in Kansas next year. We watched others enter the column of air with the guide positioning their arms and legs, helping them to remain level before it was our turn. The girls listened to the instructions and efficiently organized themselves with their jumpsuits, goggles, helmets and earplugs.

Emily went first, then Claire, Hope and me. They were fearless. All three were graceful and did their “high-flies” elegantly. What a joy to see them doing so well! I jumped into the column and became airborne myself. I was grinning like a fool during my flight with the thought of these amazing young women, capable and confident, meeting life with their arms wide open.

I hope it was an adventure for them. For me, it will be treasured as one of the best.