The speed rope was light years form the dollar store jump ropes. The handles were rubber, soft but with enough grip to stop sweaty hands sliding right off. The rope was more of a cable, sleek and grey with enough weight to carry if forwards faster than soft natural fibre.
Rodney was the master of skipping games and all through his lower school years he was a pied piper of the girls. Whatever he invented they played with gusto and he never minded the taunts of the boys. He had what they wanted and he knew it. He started with a length of yellow rope he robbed out his Dad's garage, with duct tape around each end to stop friction burns, but by grade five he was sporting a high-end fitness rope and matching black runners.
Skipping songs drift into the late October air like they will echo from the school house and the denuded trees for all time. This is how St John's is supposed to look, alive, vibrant with new woollen hats and gloves. The older girls are skipping double dutch, two long ropes whipping the air as they leap in neat pressed uniforms and black leather shoes. But the vibrancy is transitory and soon the playground will be as empty of children as the air is of song.
On the gym bench was a jump rope, but not like Sarah remembered from the school yard. The handles were more like something you'd see on a high-end bicycle and the rope was a beige cord in natural fibres.
Long before skipping came back into vogue Tara swore it was an essential part of her workout. She'd make a special trip to the kid's toy store in Greenwich village every fall for to buy a new rope and donate the old one to the local primary school. Every time she selected the same blue dashed rope and varnished wood handles. It looked like an escapee from the 1960's, but it was just a couple of pounds for something that kept her happy all year. It's kinda hard to argue with that.
The skipping rope that dangles from Jason's hand is no child's toy. The rope is black woven leather and the handles carved from wood and stained dark. Then he cricks his head to one side on the neck that must have doubled in girth since they were kids, and holds a handle in each hand. He jumps uniformly, his arms almost still with his hands providing the momentum for his rope. There is a singing sound as the leather cuts through the air. Jason's eyes are locked in front of him with no apparent focus. He's in the zone. Mariah leans against the doorway, watching...
The old skipping ropes with their wooden handles are yesterdays news. In the brilliant sunshine of 2015 they are all plastic. The handles glow pink, orange or red, the ropes are twists of nylon. They still cut the air like our old ropes did, that singing sound they make overhead before cracking into the tarmac below.
Jump rope was all the craze in fourth grade. The dirtied ropes that were once a brilliant white slapped the black-top and the kid's sneakers were almost soundless in their mini-leaps. With the twirling of the rope came the rhymes, children's voices piercing the crisp autumn air that came so soon after the term had begun. The bell always rang too soon and even after it had ceased the ropes could still be heard; jump rope was always more popular than class.
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