I'd scale the highest... nevermind
BURTON W. COLE, Editor
By Burton W. Cole
I wanted to be Tarzan.
In my youth, I studied all 24 Tarzan novels that Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote. I practiced the language of the great apes (“mangani”). If I worked at it, I could yodel that Tarzan yell without it dissolving into fits of coughing.
Only two things held me back from making Tarzan my first career choice — I look lousy in a loincloth, and no elephants (“tantor,” in the language of we mangani) roam Kentucky.
And that the title “Burtzan, Lord of the Cow Pasture,” didn’t grab anyone with quite the same magnificence as “Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle.”
And then there was the biggest problem of all, one that eliminated a whole host of career choices — my profound fear of heights.
Tarzan practically lived in the treetops, swinging wildly from branch to branch at dizzying speed through the jungle, with no fear of the hard terrain and hungry lions 50 feet below.
I get dizzy swaying from a stepstool. I wonder if I'll survive crashing to the plush carpet 12 inches below without knocking my hip out of joint.
My Uncle Tommy tried to help me conquer this vertical phobia by drafting me to help nail shingles on a barn roof.
“Wha-what if I slip?” I stammered as I pressed myself as flat as possible on the way-too-high cow castle.
“The fall won’t hurt, not one little bit,” he cooed. “But you might want to look out for the sudden stop at the end. That can shake a guy up a bit.”
The very word “heights” implies something that’s up there. I firmly believe that heights should stay where they belong — above me — and that I should firmly remain grounded on terra firma, where I belong. Firmly. And grounded
When my family went places such as Kings Island or Cedar Point, I was the guy who sat on the bench below and well out of the way of the “splat zone” while everyone else took off for the roller coasters. It made sense. Somebody needed to be available to call 911 if the coaster cars flew off track.
I served as the designated driver of the amusement park bunch.
Fortunately, there was never a need for me to make that call, but I was ready. My eyes were closed, but I was ready. You’re welcome.
Many possible career choices were discarded owing to a fear of heights.
When I was 8, I settled on becoming the next Spider-Man, but he swung from towering building to towering building on strands of webbing that dissolved.
I couldn’t even jump from bed to bed in the room I shared with my brothers. Let’s just say hooking a sheet around a ceiling fan doesn’t work out as well as spiderwebs.
The Batman often perched on gargoyles to watch the city way, way, waaay below. If he slipped, he whipped his bat-rope out of his utility belt and always managed to hook onto a conveniently placed ledge.
I still carry a scar under my bottom lip from where I perched on the edge of my highchair, slipped and hit the kitchen floor. It turns out that diapers don’t have utility belts. Nor would there have been a conveniently placed ledge to hook onto on the drop down.
Let’s not even get into the Underdog incident, when I thought a blanket cape would let me fly off the front porch. But that might serve as a clue as to how my fear of heights developed. It formed instantly, on the way down.
My fear of heights is neither irrational nor a travesty. If it wasn’t for my fear of heights, I could have grown up to become a roofer.
But instead of digging my fingernails into layers of shingles or scratch along metal way up high while dripping slippery sweat under a blazing sun, my fear of heights dropped me into a career with a comfortable chair inside an air-conditioned office. Safe!
At least until I doze off at my computer, slide out of my chair and hit the floor. That’s when I'll let loose with my Tarzan yodel.
Don’t look up if you want to find Burt. He’s grounded at news@falmouthoutlook.com.
