At least once each week, throughout my elementary school campaign, someone in the class would approach me and ask, “How did you get to be so tall?” Believe it or not, I once was a gangling beast among proportionate tikes. In fact, in a school-wide production of “The Wizard of Oz,” as all the other kindergarteners filled the roles of cute jovial munchkins, the director said she had a special role for me. “Do I get to be the tin man?” No, no Travis. We already asked Tommy to play the tin man. Besides, you don't want to wear all that tin for the entire play, do you? “I suppose not. Oh, I know! I get to be the scarecrow!” Well, not quite. Josh is the scarecrow. We already packed his shirt with straw. His part isn't that much fun anyway. “Who could I be, then? Oooo! Oooo! I know! I get to be the lion!” Umm, no. You see, Chris made the tale during art class. “Maybe Chris will let…” Travis, Travis, we don't want to bother Chris while he's memorizing his lines. Besides, we have the perfect part for you. Stand right next to the tree. Good. Now crouch down and grab your knees. You are going to be the best rock.

            For the next four years I grew like a bean stalk in a tub of banana peels. By fourth grade, I was a five-foot-four tower of skin and bones. Two years later, I stood taller than most of my teachers at five-ten. Every time a paper airplane settled above the blackboard, I was called upon to retrieve the craft as her footsteps resonated through the hallway. After several weeks of rescuing planes, kick balls, and kittens, I began to question why I was so tall. After all, my dad was only five-nine—my mom five-seven.

            I began to analyze what made me so tall. I slept a lot—at least nine hours most nights. But Steve said he only slept for seven hours, and he was five-six. I often swung on the swing set, but Jenny, Suzy, and Sally were swinging for hours at a time, and they couldn't even reach the top of my head.  I picked my nose a lot, but so did Carlito.

            After much pondering, I remembered my favorite fruit from when I was young. Every day, for three years, I ate a slice of a lemon; that's right, I consumed over 100 lemons when I was little.  I surmised that the citric acid broke down the strands that held my body together.

            When I told all my friends about my strange ritual, some of them tried it. Most didn't last a week. In fact, some dropped out before finishing the first slice.

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