Starts with K

Betty Qualls and I are not the same.

She is 95 but looks 63 – and acts even younger.

I am 63, but look … well, you know where this is going.

When Steele County Times reporter Howard Lestrud was sidelined for physical therapy, he made the most of his time spent in Prairie Manor Care Center.

One of the scoops he got was the story of a three-generation skydive that Qualls planned from her spot in the nursing home. It included her daughter, Pam Lujan, of Blooming Prairie, and her granddaughter, Denise Lujan, of Rochester.

The jump was planned for Sunday in Waseca, and all manner of family and friends would be watching. The media would be there.

I wanted to go, too, because I just happen to have some experience in skydiving.

It may be hard to believe, but I wasn’t always a frumpy-ish old reporter – there was once a time when I was a stylish young-ish reporter, and that reporter scored a story about skydiving.

It was August 2003, and a skydiving club had moved out of Owatonna’s airport and over to Waseca’s airport. It was a bit scandalous in the skydiving world, and because I answered the phone that brought the tip into the newsroom, I got dibs.

The jump was planned for a Saturday in Waseca. There were no friends or family watching. I was the media.

At the hangar was a somewhat bawdy scene: Loud music was playing, people were drinking beer, and there were several tents pitched on the surrounding lawn.

I asked for the guy who had called me earlier in the week, and was told, “ah, yes. He’s pretty safe. He’s been jumping since before there was air.”

Cool.

A few things stand out: I had to get into a jumpsuit – think thin, black and nylon – that had seen better days.

I was forced to jam a leather … helmet? … on my head, reminiscent of what football players wore in the 1930s. I was incredibly reluctant, because my hair looked cute. The tandem master was unswayed.

After listening to the 10-minute safety briefing and signing away all my rights, he and I walked to a very noisy plane – that had also seen better days.

That old adage about jumping out of a perfectly good airplane? It did not apply here. Jumping honestly seemed like my best chance at getting to the ground safely.

Once inside the plane – and I’m not sure how I didn’t realize this would have to happen – he had me scoot up snug against him, my back to his front, and hooked my tandem harnesses to his tandem harnesses.

It was an interesting interview: Me, yelling back over my shoulder to my source, and lifting the earflap of my leather helmet so I could hear his responses. I used a pencil for my notes, because it was cold up there.

As I recall, he was very calming, but after we’d reached 10,000 feet and they removed the entire door from the side of the plane, I was nervous.

No, I told him, I most certainly did not want to do any spins or flips. He gave me a thumbs up, and we were out the door.

When Qualls landed Sunday, cool as a cucumber, she stayed on her feet and said she loved it. I believe her.

When I landed 22 years ago, I shook like a leaf; we landed hard, on our butts. I could barely walk back to the hangar, my legs were that weak.

Qualls joked about sitting on her tandem master’s lap, but that’s where our differences end.

I joked about sitting on my tandem master’s lap, too, and there’s more:

To take a page from Charlotte Bronte: Reader, I married him.

Your move, Betty.