Gratitude Monday: The Rope Swing
Screaming and laughter in Bonnie’s backyard.
Silence and secrets, stillness by the moonrise.
Cousins and brothers and sisters and holidays
Feet-first flying cut-offs into Kezar Lake.
What’s your childhood memory of a rope swing?
I remember some by name, some only by place. The best ones hang over an incline, starting at a run,. soaring into space so high you’ll scrape your forehead on the branches-scary.
I remember the tire swing by the creek in Bonnie McCluskey’s backyard. Gabe remembers hair-raising shenanigans with teenage boys over Kezar Lake.
Nana remembers taking turns with four brothers, running feet digging a trench so deep that summer rains filled it up, half-dragging, half-swinging them all through glorious mud.
I’ve been asking for a swing at our family cabin since Dad bought the place ten years ago.
This year, at 60-something, he shimmied up one of the live oaks and complied.
It was perfect.
They never asked to watch TV all weekend, not once. When the adults were sitting out on the deck watching the blue moon, they were down on the swing. When they got bored while we were packing the car, they were down on the swing. When we came back from swimming the lake, they were down on the swing, salty and tan, barechested, barefooted, sticky and free.
We sat on the swing and watched a family of deer at dinner, not 10 yards away. A fawn so young, still nursing, older sisters still hanging around.
So simple, so intrinsically childhood.
I wish there were more things like that in our lives. We get caught up in our week-a-day woes, our homework and schedules and technology and we forget the bliss of an unencumbered summer’s evening, with nothing to do, nowhere to be, play-outside-till-dark and then come up to the deck for ice cream before the coyotes come out.
What are your childhood memories of a rope swing?
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