I had a recurring dream when I was eight or nine. My favorite aunt, Aunt Mamie, was endlessly parachuting to earth with her skirt flared out mid-air. She never crashed, but I woke up in a panic, terrified for her. Aunt Mamie was a feminist before the word was in our lexicon. She was a chiropractor who refused to be called “Miss Fry” and insisted on the designation “Dr. Fry.” I loved her most in my world because she served me mints in my hot tea, held me in her lap to read adult poetry, repaired my teddy bear, made me earn my game wins, and always seemed proud of me. Now I am older than she was when she showed me such respect and love. I’m not afraid anymore, so I think it is okay for her (and me) to jump.
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