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Wisps of a cool, gentle breeze accompanied by the serenade of neighborhood songbirds, soothe the senses in rhythm with my gliding back and forth in the old, cast-iron swing.
The cadence of squeaking from one of the swing's support arms accentuates the tempo of an evening's song. A distant train whistle joins in faint refrain, then fades in descending tone and decreasing volume. The heat of the day surrenders to a refreshing reprieve as the relaxing motion of swinging invites me to reminisce. My lawn is now the third home for a glider style of swing from a bygone era. It is now just over one-hundred years old. It held my infant father and his brother and sisters. For three generations, it has been a part of the lives of just about every child in our family, each cradled in the arms of his or her parent, grandparent, aunt, uncle or older brother or sister. Getting into the glider means you must place your feet only on the metal slats of its base platform. Above, on each side, are matching seats. This entire, independent unit, hangs by "S" shaped arms from a strong, four-footed framework . . . all once fashioned by a clever blacksmith. Time and time again, as I approached the swing in my youth, Grandmother would repeat: "Watch where you're going! Careful! Don't step down between the slats! They'll CUT YOUR FEET OFF!" I was always very cautious. Just the thought of a poor, senselessly footless little boy pitifully trying to hobble around was a terrifying vision in my imagination. I think of that now as I look down to see the blades of grass being brushed beneath my feet . . . whoosh . . . whoosh . . . whoosh . . . When neighbors are invited to swing as they visit, I repeat my grandmother's stern warning, "Careful!" I wrote to Aunt Marge just after bringing the swing to my home a few years ago. She is father's "baby" sister. I wanted her to know I kept the swing which had been in my parent's front yard for thirty years. Several layers of white paint were sandblasted from it, and it was restored to the color I remembered it being when it had resided under an enormous cedar tree at my grandparent's home. Aunt Marge soon replied: ". . . so glad you went back to green for the swing. That's how I remember it, also. I climbed in that many, many times. I would come home from school, get a bunch of crackers, then pick a pear from the tree right beside the house and sit in the swing. I'm so glad you have it." I'm glad I have it, too, Aunt Marge. When I swing in it, I envision generations of children joining me for a mythical family reunion. I see that old swing as a tangible testimony to endurance . . . a material link to the roots of kinship . . . and I hear the laughter of children on the wings of a soft, summer breeze. It's dark now. Lightning bugs gently brush the darkness with their tiny beacons. It's time to go inside. An evening's orchestration of sights, sounds and precious memories is completed.
 
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