Several years ago, when we were young and newly married, we found ourselves soaking up the long sunshine of a summer's day as we walked along a graveled beach in Alaska. Bald eagles, nearly as thick as seagulls are on most beaches, were perched and patiently awaiting a salmon's fateful hour. Here and there, other people were strolling along, much like we were just then.
A carefree band of teenagers caught our attention as they passed by. After watching them for a while, it was obvious that one guy, in particular, was twitterpated over a girl in the group, and clearly, he wanted her to get that message.
It was the way he went about showing her, that we've never forgotten. He started high-kicking her. Not really kicking her, of course, but kicking at her from a safe distance, just to show her that he could.
Bam! Ka-Pow! Spin! Bam! Spin-Ka-Pow!
We watched the high-kick show all the way down the beach, and decided that the higher you high-kick a girl, the more you like her. It was like a human version of an animal's strange mating dance. This love-sick boy was giving it his best shot, and was desperately hoping that the girl would be impressed.
We never knew what resulted from his high-kick dance, but for the sake of his little twitterpated heart, we hoped that she was impressed, too.
The high-kick. The two of us have never forgotten it. He hasn't. I haven't.
Every so often, as our years have run along, my guy will lean over to me and say, "I'm high-kickin' ya."
And I know.
So, just the other day, when my phone rang with instructions to drive out to an open space between two fields, I did.
An easy bank left, and he came back again, from the other direction:
And this, without my zoom lens, mind you.
He was high-kickin' me.