I Think of Swings

When I was a little girl I loved to swing.  It didn't matter whether I was at Gailey Park or on the swing set in my own front yard (I was one of the lucky ones—swings in my own front yard!)  I loved the feeling of the wind in my hair as I glided back and forth and the power in my legs as I created my own motion.  It didn't matter to me whether the seat was strong canvas (like the ones at school) or hard blue plastic like the ones on Grandma’s swing set.  Nothing mattered as long as I could swing.  

Every year when the air was touched with the first twinge of spring (about the time the snowdrops appeared by our front steps), my best friend Sara and I couldn't resist the pull of the swings; we used to say we could hear them calling to us.  On sunny afternoons we would rush home from school, drop our school bags, hug our Moms and rush out again to meet at the corner of 3^rd West and 1^st South to dash over to the park to spend as much time as we could filling our lungs with the freshly scented air.  To say we learned valuable lessons as we pumped our legs rhythmically back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, would be less than truthful, we were silly girls after all!  The pumping was often accompanied by laughter or just quiet-time as we felt the rays of the sun on our faces.

At the park we could have free reign of the swings—at school it seemed the swings were reserved for the bigger kids, perhaps this had something to do with the fact that they were bigger and faster than us little kids and made it to the swings before everyone else. I was not uncommon for me to spend an entire recess (about 15 minutes) swinging myself breathless on the big swing set beneath the trees that must have been a thousand years (they seemed at least that old to me!)  I loved riding the teeter-totter swing with my little sister Liz, it was fun to get going so fast that the swing set would “bump” what a thrill! (back in those days no one’s swing set was anchored to the ground—it is a wonder I survived such a dangerous childhood!)

I can recall spring and summer afternoon (even into Junior High and High School) when some quality time was spent swinging on those familiar park swings. I even took my nephews and nieces there a time or two to share the swings with them. Now days the park is not the same, my beloved swings no longer exist, the swings under the trees at the school have long since been gone and the playground covered with parking lot.  But even as an adult (I’ll be thirty-eight this year) I can hear the call of the swings if I listen carefully.