Swinging

It seems I was born with a naturally nervous disposition.  Since my earliest memories, I have always had to be moving.  As a two or three year old, I had an old spring horse as my release.  I can remember sitting in the saddle and taking long rides back and forth, the springs squeaking out the rhythm.  When I was bored with that, I would switch to a hopping pattern, slowly jumping the horse across the living room floor.  When not on my horse, I could frequently be found rocking in a rocking chair.  This is a trait I carry to this day; if there is a rocking chair in the room, that is where I will be seated.  In fact, I am sitting on my front porch, in an all hickory bentwood rocker made by an Amish man in New York as I write this.  Rocking chairs don’t really stand a chance with me.  I am a vigorous rocker, and the toll of my exertions is usually soon apparent.  As a toddler, I would rock so hard I would tip the chair over.  My parents then switched to an antique platform rocker that for many years had sat in the poultry house where my grandfather worked.  Many springs were broken on that poor rocker before I moved on.  For years I would rock myself to sleep in it each night.  The chair has followed me into my adult life and keeps a vigil next to the piano in our living room. Traditional wooden rockers separate at the joints, and even the tough, curved hickory runners of the chair I’m now sitting in are worn and splintered. 

Even in my sleep I move.  There were six of us growing up in a three bedroom home, which meant we slept two to a bed.  My brother and I shared a bed for several years.  The only way I could go to sleep was to tap my foot or rock my leg.  Over and over again, my poor brother would grab my leg to stop me.  The rocking of the bed probably made him seasick, but for me it seemed the only way to burn off the last vestiges of that day’s energy and relax.  The same pattern continued in school, church or any other situation in which I was forced to sit for extended periods.  Even now, if I must sit through a movie or a lecture, my foot is tapping or my leg is gently swinging.  I must be in motion at all times.

 

But for many years the main outlet for all of that nervous energy was my backyard swing set.  In the early days my swing consisted of a glider type swing and two traditional metal swings.  The glider was easier for me to use in the early days when I had not yet learned to pump my legs, but once I learned to master the other swings, I was hooked.  

For me the swing was more than an energy outlet, it was the center of my world, both real and imaginary.   Very early on I learned a swing is a great place to think.  Some people meditate, but I would lose myself in the rhythm of the swing, the squeak of the chains being my mantra.  There I reviewed the day’s school lessons in my head or plotted my future plans.  In May, I would bask in the sweet perfume of my family’s peony bushes, and in the summer I would watch my father mow the lawn as I breathed in the smell of the freshly cut grass.  I can remember swinging and singing, my repertoire being an eclectic mix of Nat King Cole and country music.  I can recall having many heart to heart talks with robins and mourning doves, encouraging them to nest in my yard.  I would also swing and talk to Gigi, the intimidating German shepherd who lived in the yard adjacent to us.  Gigi was probably a nice dog, but she scared me to death, and I was always trying to convince her I was worthy of her friendship.

Speaking of friendship, the swing was something to be shared.  How many times did my next door neighbor, Julie, and I try to swing and touch the telephone lines with our feet?  Obviously, there was no chance of that, but to a pair of five year olds, the sky’s the limit.  As we swung, we became aware of our individual rhythms and would adjust our pumping until we were totally in synch.  Sometimes it would become competitive, and we would see who could swing higher, leaning our bodies back and kicking out legs straight out to gain momentum.  Eventually, we would reach the point where the swing would stall in mid-air, the chain would slacken and we would snap back towards the earth as gravity took over.  Julie’s sister, Becky, as well as other neighbors, would also join in the action as we switched to jumping games.  There were variations on this theme ranging from who could jump the highest to who could jump the farthest.  Then there was the statue game where one would leap off the swing and strike a pose in mid-air, trying to maintain it on the ground.  Eventually, one of the metal swings wore through and broke, and my parents replaced it with a white plastic seat.  The seats were the same width, hung at the same height and traced the same arc, yet the white swing never felt right.  Only the old black swing felt comfortable to any of us.  So the battle cry as we ran into the backyard was always, “Dibs on the black swing!”  I was not very chivalrous, so I usually claimed the rights of ownership

The swing set was the perfect stage for my active imagination in those early years.  It served as boats, planes, racecars, rockets, caves, etc.  I survived many shipwrecks on that old swing.  It was the time of Gilligan’s Island, and I sang out the theme as my adventure began.  The rise and fall of the swing became the S.S. Minnow riding the ocean swells, and with a leap from the seat, I was suddenly tossed onto a deserted island.   As I explored the island, the frame of the swing set became trees and hills.  The end supports were shaped like the letter “A” and by climbing up and over the cross bar, I could imagine myself entering a cave or climbing still higher in a tropical tree.

The swing naturally lent itself to the role of a fighter jet.  The constant dragging of my feet through the years had left the ground below barren of grass and with a fine dust layer.  The poor unsuspecting ants became the enemy vehicles I was to take out.  With proper sound effects of jet engines, rattling machine guns and explosions, I repeatedly strafed the enemy below.  By tapping my foot in the dust, I could raise a small cloud which looked to me like bombs exploding far below.  I usually emerged victorious, but on occasion, my plane would be hit by artillery and I would be forced to bail out.

 

I’ve written before of my wonderful years at Raccoon Lake.  I was not without swings there, either.  However, there I traded the traditional swing for tire swings.  There were two different tire swings through the years, but they were both suspended from tall trees in the woods.  If you had a good push, you could enjoy quite a ride; however, there was always the fear that you would get off track and crash into one of the supporting trees.  Even before the tire swings, there was a large rope swing behind what would eventually become our third and final trailer.  It was a thick rope attached high into a large poplar tree.  You had to stand on a small tool shed to mount the rope, but the ride was well worth the effort.  It carried your across the lot and into the woods before gently bringing your back to the shed.  It could almost take your breath away.  The family who at that time owned the property did not appreciate our playing on their rope, so sadly one weekend it suddenly disappeared!  Occasionally, we would find a large grapevine that someone had cut, and we would do our best Tarzan impersonations by riding it through our Midwestern “jungle.”  The problem with grapevines is that once they are cut, they begin dying and sooner or later they break.  My sister, being older and larger than me, was the usual victim of these vine failures.  It was a two phased problem.  First, the vine would break sending Sheila sailing to the ground below, but that was not the end.  The second phase was the long vine falling to the ground from the tree, peppering her with chunks of wood and vine.  

As with all things, time marched on and I outgrew the little swings, moving instead to porch swings and gliders.  I still give them a run for their money because I am anything but a subtle rocker.  But I enjoy them no less than those early days in my backyard when Gigi and the mourning doves watched a small boy trying to swing high and touch the telephone lines, and the squeak of the chains rand out all day long.

Something in the Air

They say that the sense of smell is one of the strongest triggers for memories, and I was reminded of that fact the other day while driving home from work.  It was a welcomed warm spring day, and I was finally able to drive with the windows down.  In front of me was a small car driven by a man puffing away on a cigar.  The smoke drifted back and soon the smell of tobacco surrounded me.   I was immediately transported back to my early childhood when I would tag along with my parents to afternoon softball games.  The team was the Anchorettes, a women’s fastpitch softball team that played at a field on Sherman Drive located on the east side of Indianapolis.  One of the players, Miss Wetzel, was the physical education teacher at my elementary school, so I was greatly intrigued to see her in a role outside of that parameter.  However, other than the remarkable speed and power of those pitches, the thing I most remember of those hot, summer afternoons was the smell of cigars and popcorn. It was the first thing I noticed when entering the bleachers, and it lingered in my nose even on the car ride home. The same smell greeted me a few years later when my parents would take me to Busch Stadium to watch the Indianapolis Indians play an exhibition game against the Cincinnati Reds during the era of the Big Red Machine.   I come from a family of mostly non-smokers and generally detest the smell of cigarettes, but that particular blend of cigars and popcorn always stirs happy memories.

 

I have already mentioned in another post how the smell of wood smoke or burning leaves is a most effective time machine for me.  My most obvious connection to those smells is my early years at the lake.  From sunup to sundown, a fire was always kept burning in the outdoor fireplace.  On cold days we huddled around its warmth, and at all times we relied on it to cook some of the best meals I’ve ever eaten.  In the morning, the first one up had the job of rebuilding the fire for the day.  When the task fell to me, my goal was to find some still glowing embers from the night before and rekindle the fire without the aid of matches.  With bits of newspaper, small twigs and lots of blowing, I would soon have the fire springing back to life.  In the autumn, those campers who did not live adjacent to the woods, would rake their leaves into the road to burn.  A constant haze of smoke hung over the camp, but it was never unpleasant.  Even to this day, if I step out of my house on a cool evening and smell a fire burning in a neighbor’s fireplace, I am a boy back in the woods warming myself by the fire.

At home each year, my father would prune the trees that filled our property.  The branches would be piled high on the garden to dry, and then one evening in late summer, Dad would burn them in a giant bonfire.  I can remember sitting in my swing watching the fire light up the backyard as dusk fell, waiting for the pile to burn low enough that we could then roast marshmallows.   It was a great ending to summer.

The lake had another smell which, although not as pleasant as smoke, still evokes a unique response.  Each morning we would get up early, gather our fishing gear and head down to the boat to get a head start on the day’s fishing.  As we approached the water there was a very distinct smell which hung heavy in the wet morning air.  It was a mixture of wet clay, fish and lake water.  Initially, I found it unpleasant, but through its association with all those good times, I grew to like it.  I now have the privilege of having a large creek run through my property.  On certain days when the temperature is hot and the air is humid, the same smell will drift up and touch me, placing me not in my backyard but on the muddy shoreline of Raccoon Lake all those many years ago.

An equally powerful memory booster is, oddly enough, the smell of Johnson’s paste wax.  My parents were faithful practitioners of the age old practice of “spring cleaning.”  Early each year the house would be scrubbed from top to bottom.  The commencement of the process would be signaled one morning by the sudden appearance of mattresses in the hallway.  Taking one room at a time, Mom and Dad would dismantle the beds and move all furniture out of the bedrooms and into the living room and hall.  Walls were washed with Murphy’s Oil Soap or freshly painted, the curtains were laundered and ironed, and then as a final touch, the hardwood floors were waxed and polished with Johnson’s paste wax.  Mom would coat the floors with the wax, and Dad would buff them to a high gloss.  I would celebrate the completion of the task by charging into my room and sliding across the floor in my stocking feet.  And of course I would whistle and shout and listen to my voice echo off the empty walls and floor.  That night I would snuggle into my clean, fresh smelling sheets and drift to sleep with the scent of wax still lingering in the air.  To me that smell  meant cleanliness, and it still brings back cherished images of my parents working side by side to give us a wonderful home.

There are assorted other smells that also create snapshots of my childhood.  If you mention Easter, I don’t think of flowers and green grass.  Instead I smell the vinegar that we used with the dye to color Easter eggs.  Mom would get her family China from the cabinet and line up the tea cups to use for dying eggs.  It was the only time of year they were ever used.  Mom would carefully measure out the water for each cup, add vinegar and then drop in the tablet of food coloring.  The eggs looked so pretty soaking in those fancy tea cups, but the sour smell of vinegar was ever present.  After Easter came the month of May which meant the peony bushes that lined our backyard would begin blooming.  By Memorial Dad you could be sure the entire yard would be perfumed by their sweet fragrance.  I have transplanted a couple of those bushes to my own yard, and each spring I walk out, grasp a bloom in my hands and bury my nose in the pink or white petals and breathe in the scent of my childhood home.  June followed May, and the scent of freshly mown grass replaced the smell of the peonies.  Although I paid for much of my college by mowing lawns, I did not mow my own family’s lawn.  However, as a boy, I enjoyed sitting and swinging while watching Dad mow, and it is that association that still clings to that smell.  It is the labor side of lawn care that comes to mind when I smell gasoline, but to me the fragrance of cut grass means enjoying a summer afternoon watching my father working in the yard.  Speaking of gasoline, when we were kids, my sister and I loved it when my parents would drive behind a city bus, and we could smell the diesel fumes.    I don’t know what our attraction to that was, and I don’t believe it is a smell I enjoy as an adult, but it is one which I can distinctly remember from my youth.

I do have one grown up association with a scent.  It is the smell of the baby lotion I rubbed on our two children each night after their baths.  Evening was my bonding time with my son and daughter, so while my tired wife got a rare moment to relax, I gave the children their daily bath.  Afterwards, I would lay them on a towel and massage them with lotion, and I would breathe in its clean fragrance as I held them tight or tucked them into bed.  How I miss those times.

In my adult years, my sense of smell has become greatly reduced.  I no longer seem to be forming those bonds between scents and memories, but how thankful I am that occasionally a certain smell from the past will drift by my nose and carry me along on its vapors to another time and place. 

Sinking feeling

The great naval accident began innocently enough.  The crew of four boarded their small craft at some point in the mid-afternoon.  It was a muggy, July day and the sun dancing on the water blinded the seamen.  With a unified effort they launched their craft from the muddy shore and set sail.  Their paddles sliced silently in the water as the craft headed away from land.  The water was relatively smooth, but occasionally a wave would still lift the front of their boat and set it back down.  They had made good progress and the larger body of water loomed ahead when it happened.  At first there was only a strange hissing sound, then water began appearing at their feet.  Before anyone knew what was happening, all four were in the water.  Disaster was at hand!

Okay, maybe it wasn’t quite so dramatic.  If the truth be known, it was just me and a few buddies from junior high taking my sister’s raft out for a paddle at Raccoon Lake.  There were four of us in a three-man raft, which should have been my first warning, but it seemed like a fun way to kill some time during our summer vacation.   Jay, Dan and Danny had been classmates of mine for several years.  Actually, Danny had only joined the class in 7th grade, but his outgoing, friendly persona soon made it feel that he had always been a part of the group. 

We had paddled the length of our cove and were approaching the main lake where we planned to turn around and head back, a small rubber raft being no match for the army of speedboats slicing the lake that weekend.  Suddenly, there was a hissing sound followed by bubbling, and I could feel the sides of the raft softening and buckling under my weight.  Realizing what was happening, I called out, “It’s deflating!  It’s deflating!”  Dan, one of the more eccentric of the group, gave his own spin to my proclamation.  Shortly before the end of school that summer, we had learned about the body systems in health class.  A revelation to us all was that gas was known as flatulence.  Giving this a slightly Latin turn, Dad changed my words into “It’s da flatus!  It’s da flatus!”  Dan must have taken those health classes to heart because today he is my personal physician.

Soon water was filling the boat, and the rear half where the air leak had originated collapsed into the water.  The deflating boat and tumbling friends threw the remainder of us off balance and soon we were all in the water.  We were dog paddling and trying to round up the sinking raft and the paddles that were being pushed away by our splashing.  I stopped to take a survey of my friends to make sure we were all okay.  I did so knowing that Jay had admitted beforehand that he could not really swim, but as kids are known to do, we had left without any sort of life preserver.  I looked around and saw Dan and Danny, but Jay was not there.  For a moment I felt panic shoot threw my body as I whipped my head from side to side trying to catch a glimpse of him.  As my gaze turned towards shore, there was Jay crawling out of the water.  It may be considered sacrilegious to make this proclamation, but I am quite sure that Jay walked on water that day.  I know of no other way he could have reached the shore so quickly, especially given he was not a swimmer.

With Jay safe and accounted for, the rest of us relaxed and started having a good laugh as we drug the limp raft to the water’s edge.  Although there was a small level area, we came ashore where the banks were tall and steep.  It was no small feat to drag ourselves and gear up the hill and into the woods at the end of the camp road.  There we tried to dry ourselves a little.  I can remember how Danny was wearing corduroy pants (I am still not sure of his choice since this was summertime,) and he took them off to wring them out.  There he was in his underwear while we grabbed each end of his pants and began twisting them as if we were taking part in a taffy pull.  In the end, the pants were considerably dryer, but the lines on his corduroy ended up being arranged in a pronounced zigzag pattern.

In the end, we were all fine and had a good chuckle over the experience.  My sister never fully forgave me for “breaking her raft” and still mentions it from time to time.  The parents never did replace it, and for that I do feel guilty.  However, the memory of that day is still afloat in my mind over 30 years later, and when I’ve mentioned it to my friends, I can tell it is still vivid for them, as well. Rafts come and go, but memories last a lifetime.

(Dedicated to my friend Jay who has subtly hinted I should write about our great water adventure.  Jay, your memories may be different than mine, so feel free to add your own version below.)