It wasn’t just the jumping rope that I enjoyed, it was also the singing. On the playground of Washington Elementary each day before class we took turns twirling and jumping. The two twirlers would go around a few times. Set the pace, while the other girls stood in line behind the rope, matching the turns with hands raised like conductors. And the song would begin…”Vote vote vote for (insert name here)…” and she would jump in. “Knock knock (next girl in line) at the door…” and she would jump in. “She’s a better woman, she can do the wibble wobble, so we don’t need (first girl) anymore.” The first girl would jump out and the song began again. Whenever someone tripped or stopped the rope they had to become a twirler. I’m not going to say it was great theatre, but we thought it was quite a production!  So we sang! We laughed! We jumped! Together!

Of course I had jump ropes at home. Singles as I called them. The length for one person. And it was fun to jump solo. The smooth garage floor added speed. I timed myself. Jumps per minute. Lengths of the stall. But one Saturday, walking through Ben Franklin to get to our car parked in back by the library, I saw them. Full length playground jump ropes. “Oh, please! I need one!” I begged my mom. “You have jump ropes,” she said. “Not the long one. I promise I’ll use it. I promise.” They were only a dollar, so it wasn’t a big fight. 

My mom was about to pull in the garage. “No, wait!” I said, knowing I would need the full floor. She shrugged her shoulders and walked inside. I took off the tags. Tied one end to the garage door handle and walked it back. Making sure to clear the ceiling with each turn. I set the pace. The door complied. I began to sing. I “voted” myself in and kept jumping. Raced around when I, myself, “knocked at the door,” and became the better woman, never missing a beat. 

The dust flew up from the cement floor — the floor that went unswept because I could always find something more important to do, like the wibble wobble for instance. 

Of course I could have just jumped using the solo rope, but it felt good to be connected, even when I was alone. I feel like these words that I type each morning do the same thing. Sending out little songs. Little invites. For us to be connected. Even with those who have long stopped turning, but with whom we continue to sing and to jump and to laugh! Together!