The Trampoline

I noticed it last week— rusted with a torn, tattered mat that hung to the ground. Tucked behind our neighbor’s house, I spotted a trampoline that had seen better days. Their kids are older now, and they are no longer interested in the trampoline, I suppose.

But seeing it made my mind travel back to Christmas morning when I was about 8 or 9 years old. That year, Santa pulled off one of the greatest magic tricks of my childhood. While we slept all snug in our beds, Santa left a magnificent red-framed, rectangular trampoline in our backyard— fully constructed, ready for action, like it had always belonged there.

The irony wasn’t lost on us kids that my older brother was laid up sick on that particular Christmas Day with a fever, of all days. Our parents had to step out for an hour or two, leaving us with strict instructions that my brother was to rest, stay in bed, and, most importantly, stay off the trampoline. Well, let’s just say the call of that new trampoline proved stronger than my parents’ strict instructions. The moment their car disappeared down the street, turning from Lake Placid Drive onto Moody Road, we staged the quickest jailbreak in family history. My brother, sister, and I raced out into the backyard for a few precious minutes of forbidden bouncing before slipping back inside—our secret safe and our Christmas complete.

In the days and weeks that followed, that trampoline became the center of our universe. We discovered we were natural performers— all three of us blessed with the kind of coordination and athleticism that made learning tricks effortless. Within a week, we were executing forward and back flips, jackknives, and belly flops that would’ve made circus performers proud. We jumped solo, creating our own aerial routines. We jumped in pairs, developing an unspoken language of timing and trust. We made up games. We had the time of our lives.

Who among us doesn’t have the desire to defy gravity, to jump higher than human legs allow? The freedom felt infinite. Even now, decades later, I can close my eyes and feel that sensation of weightlessness.

Word of the Lanier’s new trampoline spread through the neighborhood like wildfire, and soon, our backyard transformed into the unofficial headquarters of childhood fun. A chorus of laughter, off-key singing, and the rhythmic creaks of the springs filled our backyard on summer afternoons as we bounced until we were breathless and soaked with sweat. My father recognized the traffic congestion and brought home the perfect solution: a massive wooden cable spool that he rolled into position next to the trampoline. Laid flat, it became a wooden staging platform— safely accommodating 3 or 4 kids at a time while they waited their turn to touch the clouds.

That trampoline wasn’t just for jumping, though. It also served as our outdoor living room and homework desk. I can still remember sprawling across its surface on warm afternoons, math problems spread around me.

Of course, like many childhood things, it lost its luster as we grew older. Like the metal-framed object behind our neighbor’s house, our trampoline lingered in our backyard for years after we’d outgrown it, becoming more obstacle than entertainment. We’d grudgingly move it every time we needed to mow grass, watching it slowly surrender to rust and time. When we finally said goodbye, it was weathered and worn, missing springs, its canvas torn and rotting.

But oh, the memories it left behind! The memories it left behind!