Yeah, you heard me. Swings.
I'd like to think that swings are the oldest, noblest, and most classic of all the playground equipment, but I'm sure that title is taken by something else, like the see-saw or 1/2 mile track.
Well, I say Whatever to that, because swings rule.
Once I was introduced to the fact that I could power them myself by swinging my legs at the right moments, I was forever free of continually asking my parent/relative/hapless bystander for a push. Like every child in the history of mankind, and most likely certain types of monkeys, I was held under the thrall of the idea that if I swung hard and fast enough, I would definitely go ALL THE WAY OVER THE SWINGSET. Once in a while, though I am now an "adult", I am still tempted by that age-old impulse. Do people ever give in to it? Does a hapless police officer shake his head and grunt "Gaddammit, another one smashed on the swings...oh, the humanity!" whenever it happens? Probably.
We had many swingsets at my alma mater, Easterly Parkway Elementary School. One could say that we were rich with swingsets. What a joy! What a delight! Then I moved on to Mount Nittany Middle School, where and joy and happiness were discouraged. This fact was never said out loud or written anywhere, but it was self-evident because after lunch they'd throw a kickball in our direction and tell us to go play on the asphalt parking lot. We'd do it, too, because lamely playing outside and looking at the cornfields was better than being inside doing nothing.
Obviously from there I moved on to high school, where the wistful desire for swings was replaced by the wistful desire to make it to 2002 alive.
It's 2008, High School is a memory, and college is done with (for now). My old roommate Fox came to visit this weekend. The first thing we did friday morning was grab breakfast from the Ithaca Bakery and take it to Stewart Park to eat. Stewart has many historical and distinguishing factors, none of which I'll list right now because by god it has a playground with a few swingsets. I swung, it was great. I swung, I kicked off my sandals, concentrated on swinging higher than Fox, and finally swung erratically to the side in a desperate attempt to lightly tap, or "kick" her with my foot. Is there so innocent a joy as trying to attack someone whilst flying through the air? No. No there is not.
Last but not least, I went for a run yesterday. At some point I hit a gravel road that cuts through the woods. I walked down the road and saw on the right side a swing. It was wooden and attached to a very high tree branch by a long blue-and-white striped rope. I was extremely dubious about this swing since it is
A. Alone in the woods, literally not near anything
B. Not sturdy-looking
C. Directly over a small ravine or possibly stream
I looked at it for a long time, thank god no one was around. I considered trying to hook it with my foot, but it was just a bit too far for me to do. I must have looked like a nervous puppy trying to get a treat located on the back of an angry cat.
Finally I just gave in, leaned over, fell onto the swing, pulled myself up, tested the rope a few times, and verrrrry tentatively swung over the mini-ravine. Every moment I was so scared that it would snap and I would break my ankle and be stuck awkwardly out in the woods with NO explanation as to how or why I was doing what I was doing, but it was fine. I got off, got back on the road, and walked home.
I'll probably see it again. I don't know what I'll do. What a temptation. Why is it there?
Swings, swings, beautiful swings, how I love sitting on you. Le sigh.
