One of many toys I convinced my parents that my demise would be imminent if I continued living without it. I believe I had one in these exact shades of fuchsia and seafoam green.

Sky Dancers fly just for me!
With one overaggressive yank on a five-year old's equivalent of a lawnmower cord, I would send this thing flying with reckless abandon through the air. With every bit of childhood fantasy I could muster, it was not a doll, but ME flying higher and higher into the clouds. Reality, good sense, and my accountability to God were completely suspended until the exact moment she flew into the power lines, the neighbor's yard, or on top of the house. As far as I was concerned, no calamity on the world stage was more dire than my imperative need for her immediate rescue. I specifically remember my father climbing onto the roof to retrieve a Skydancer which had become a victim to my desire for vicarious flight, and my refusal to confront the consequences of my actions.

How many times did I endanger myself and those around me for the joy of playing with this one toy? I couldn't begin to tell you, and the five-year old in me continues not to care. But it required every ounce of adulthood I possess not to take this thing outside, from a junk shop in the mountains of Idaho, and send it on one last flight--beyond not only the grasp of human reach and reason, but of time.