The author, John Marek, is a writer and executive director of the Anson Economic Development Partnership.
The swing set of my youth was painted blaze orange; owing, I’m certain, to my father’s penchant for buying his paint from the CLEARANCE bin at the discount store. The provenance of that swing was never clear to me, and honestly, it’s not something a kid cares much about. Since it was around for as long as I can remember, though, I have to assume it was either a hand-me-down from my older brother and sisters, or it came with the house we moved into when I was a year old. Either way, it was heavy-gauge steel construction that made me think it was surely a few decades old; even back then, they didn’t make things like they used to.
It sat on a grassy, slightly inclined stretch of lawn about halfway between our house and garden; standard A-frame design with two metal seats hanging from chains (all painted orange, of course) and a see-saw “glider” that was a little too rusty to ever glide very effectively.
When I was small, I could swing myself to 4 and 8 o’clock and aspire to 3 and 9. But as I got older, my weight, the incline of the yard, and the unsecured frame legs caused those legs to lift dangerously from the ground at the apogee of my swing. By the time I was in fourth or fifth grade, anything more than 5 and 7 threatened to upset the whole works. That was no fun, and I moved on to other adventurous pursuits, leaving the swing virtually unused.
Eventually, at my mother’s urging, Dad removed the seats and glider, painted the frame black, moved it under a leafy maple tree right outside our kitchen window, and hung a wooden porch swing on it. I’m sure Mom had visions of long afternoons in the cool shade rocking gently while crocheting or doing her word search puzzles, but it didn’t work out that way. She never seemed able to get comfortable on that swing, and, if we’re honest, fresh air and sunshine weren’t her favorite things.
I, on the other hand, loved that porch swing. During my summer breaks, I could spend hours each day there reading or listening to the radio. Sometimes I would sit in a “normal” swinging position, but the seat was just the right length so I could also recline against one side and prop my feet up on the other. Occasionally, I would sit “Indian-style” with my legs crossed, swinging with the subtle motion of my head. No doubt, the neighbors found that amusing.
Right before I went off to college, the steel frame, which was likely 50 years old by that point, developed a crack that widened to the point where structural failure seemed imminent, so I dragged it across the street to our neighbor, Chuck, who welded on a support bar, and I went right back to swinging.
After college, I moved out and a couple of years later bought my own house. One of my first big purchases as a homeowner was a porch swing. This one was made entirely of wood – frame and swing – and, at $200 in 1987 money, was an extravagance on my limited budget. Each side of the frame was a tripod of 2-by-4’s with a shelf at arm-level made up of 3/4-inch square dowels. The swing itself was made of those same dowels, fastened to an ergonomically curved form. It was dang-near a piece of art! It was also the most annoyingly uncomfortable thing I have ever tried to contort my body into. It just never felt right. I doubt I sat in it for a total of more than 40 hours in the five years I owned it.
When I moved from that house into a condo with a tiny patio, I gave my mom and dad that massive wooden swing. Dad set it up under the leafy maple tree, and mom loved it; she said it was the most comfortable thing she’d ever sat in!