Editor’s porch swing story opened a vein

 

 I was glad to read that the SOUTHERN STANDARD's editor shared his memorable experiences on his kin’s porch swing. And that his newspaper office in Amity has one now. As long as I can remember, we, too, had a porch swing, and there is still one here. When a boyfriend brought me home from a date, we sat in the swing for a while. If we stopped swinging—it creaked—Dad would throw a shoe at the door to let us know they were close by. Of course, they knew things that we didn’t and didn’t do more than 

kiss, if even that. 

When I moved back to this house in 2006, for a housewarming gift, my late brother, Bill, brought a swing and a rocker. After sixteen years, they are still in prime shape, except the maroon spray paint to match the bricks on the house façade has faded. They need a new coat. The original swing—original to me, at least—had been “sat out” and after repair, was attached to an old swing set in the yard. I don’t recall what happened to that one unless it rotted away and was burned.

                I sit out daily, usually with the two puzzles from the state and local papers and with the pad of daily New York Times crosswords that son Gordon gave me for Christmas last year. I take a pen AND a pencil (I might have to guess at a few answers at first), plus a journal—in case something strikes my fancy, and I can glean a poem from it. I use an overturned plastic planter as a footstool and a thick pillow for a writing surface.

                Right behind the swing, which is on the north side of the long porch, are fifty-five-year-old hydrangeas Mom and Dad received and planted after the untimely death of a young daughter.  Since then, I’ve enlarged the area and planted cone flowers, daisies, variegated (non-vining) monkey grass, Lily-of-the-Valley bulbs, mini nandinas, irises and rose campion that I used to call Lamb’s Ear.

Also, at the northeast corner of the house is a holly tree that holds a mockingbird’s nest. She “speaks” to me—loudly at times—as if to say, “You’re too close; why don’t you move to the rocker?”

A high school friend who visited last year said, “If I lived here (or had a swing) I’d sit out all day.” She was exaggerating, of course, but I understand her feeling.

    The view southeast from the swing lets me see down the road a ways, the south yard “fenced” with rounds of a discarded telephone pole, interrupted now and then by an ancient redbud tree, a Ligustrum (a citified privet) that I planted which is now as high as the redbud, and common and pestiferous privet that seems to grow, like kudzu, overnight. Closer, irises and drift roses, plus a few shrubs from earlier times outline the southeast yard’s barrier of concrete blocks. Originally the delineation between the lawn and the driveway, it’s now a mossy green space with irises on three sides.

I agree with Editor May: more folks should have porch swings. 

c 2022, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA