Flying on the Swing

Swings are a close approximation of flying. I love to swing and always have.

In the row of giant poplar trees was on that had a bough that stretched out nearly horizontal and then raced straight up. Before I was aware of life, someone climbed up that giant bough, it must have been more than two feet in diameter at the trunk, and tied a big rope near the top and placed an old tire at the bottom.

This old tire swing was such a perfect swing. I would step up on the tire and then perch on the top of the tire with the rope between my legs. My dad, coming out of the shop, would walk up and I would beg for an underduck.

A giant of a man, he would rush at me and away I would go. Lifting into the air I would leave his great hands and earth below with a rush of such joy. Coming back I would shout as the tire twisted and flew down to the ground to turn right back up again.

I felt like a bird diving for mice over and over again.

I see swings now and my heart pounds with the reminiscent joy of those days of joyful flight.