Swing, swang, swung...

The sight of a swing unfailingly brings a smile to my face. Rubber seated, rusty chained schoolyard swings, rope swings, frayed and worn, tire swings with their pungent smell, or poetic beauties like the one pictured here. One glance and I am 8 again, pumping my legs to make the swing go high then higher... head thrown back, hair flying, hands gripping for dear life. I used to worry that I'd go so high the swing would flip right over the top of where it was fastened, and then what would become of me? It was a thrilling sort of worry.

My mother bought a wooden glider swing for my dad for fathers day one year when I was a teen. It was a two-seater; 4 adults could share it, facing each other and go for a gentle ride. I have a vivid memory of my parents sitting side by side in the sun, holding hands. My dad smiled sweetly at me and said, "holding hands with your mother has always been the very most romantic thing." Later, when I left them alone there, moving slowly to and fro, I turned in time to see mom throw her head back in a joyful, spontaneous laugh at something he had said. Dad's eyes were twinkling with pleasure at her delight.

Swing set memories make me smile.