Growing Up Vertically

This is actually my first attempt at non-fiction writing. It's about my sister and I growing up on a farm. Let me know what you think.

                The sky is shrinking.

                Once bold and blue and looming like a hunched old man over his grandchildren, it appears to cower deeper inside the corners of our constructed universe as each new skyscraper erupts from the ground and pierces it through with its steely bayonet. It continues to shrink with every cell phone tower, every corporate office, and every parking ramp. The sky is turning more and more into a concrete-and-conduit blanket every day, and there’s nothing we can do but reminisce.

                My sister and I had nothing but blue sky when we were kids.

                We felt that we were as much a part of that sky as the geese who called to us from their pointed formations, and we went to great lengths to join them. Luckily for us, our farm came equipped with everything we needed to get as close to those birds as we possibly could.

                My sister and I were climbers.

                My sister broke both of her legs when she was two when she fell out of the feed conveyer into the bunk feeder ten feet below. Despite the plaster weights strapped to her lower legs with hot pink bandages, she climbed the rusted and retired windmill in the yard while I kept a lookout for Mom, who could have easily seen us from the dining room window. I wanted to join her, but she was better at getting out of punishment than I was.

                I think she only made it halfway up before we got caught.

                Silos were typically only meant to be climbed by Dad and his hired men, and only when they needed to be repaired. We’d watch from the safety of the calf hutches as they armed themselves with hammers, screwdrivers and flashlights and climbed the 60’ concrete structure to get to the tiny door at the top.

                We could do better.

                As soon as we figured out the logistics, we wrapped our hands around the cold and dust-covered rungs that wrapped around the silo and made our way upwards. When we reached a certain point, I gave her careful instructions on how to let go of the silo and jump backwards so she’d land on the barn roof. She went first, and I followed suit. We stood at the top, teetering unsteadily on the slanted peak of the building, observing our surroundings like a couple golden-haired goddesses keeping watch over their dominion. We ran to peak of the roof and slid down numerous times, using the awkwardly affixed rain gutter as a place to plant our feet when we got to the bottom.

                I don’t think my sister knew I was only pretending that I knew what I was doing.

                Dad bought us a swing set when he got tired of us scoffing at the concept of gravity, and it was great for a while. It had a hanging tire, an aluminum slide that went almost as fast as the barn roof, and two yellow plastic swings that were positioned in such a way that if we were to jump from them, we could land in the sandbox. Before long, we discovered how to toss the swings over the handlebars so we could swing higher off the ground.

                Soon after that, we were swinging from the top of the swing set itself.

                As we grew older, the ancient behemoths that dominated the farm’s skyline seemed to sink into the ground. We were still dwarfed by the silos, but they weren’t so imposing. The swing set was still taller than us, but we easily pull ourselves onto it with a stretch or a hop. The conversations we had on the tops of those structures shifted from a mix of Power Rangers and UFO’s to a fading drone of simmering contented silence. We moved off of the farm when I was ten and my sister was eight. Our new house was across the street from the baseball field and blocks away from our friends from school. We were free to grow up any way we wanted. We rode our bikes to the pharmacy to buy ice cream every day. We stayed out late with our friends every night of the week. For a while, Dad’s worst nightmares came true and we allowed our brains to rot with the help of our brand new Nintendo 64, and later a shiny and pristine Playstation 2. My sister and I had a chance to be normal. Instead, we found it more comforting to ditch any notion of normalness. On the breezy summer evenings that are always so resplendently serene in southwestern Wisconsin, my sister and I found ourselves setting up camp on the garage roof, and soon our friends joined us. When you are that close to the clouds, it’s easy to forget how organic and close to the earth you are meant to be. When we were on the roof, whether it was the garage or the barn, life was, for at least a few minutes, completely perfect.