What is it about a homemade rope swing that beckons you to stop and notice its presence? When I was a little girl, we moved into a new house my dad built (as in actually built). If memory serves, I was 6 years old. Our old house was small - 900 sq. feet. The back yard was even smaller but my parents managed to eke out enough space for an above ground pool (one of those 8 foot circle pools from the 70's and 80's) and the all important metal swing set. I grew up in Florida where the winters were relatively mild and the summer sun could fry an egg. With such variations in temperature, a metal swing set could be a girl's best friend or her ultimate nemesis. I loved nothing more than to spend time outside in the spring sun on my little swing not too cold, not too hot. When we moved, I was sad to see that it would not come with us.
In our new and spacious back yard, there stood a 200 year old oak tree that my parents designed their house around. The back porch seemed to reach out to it, and in gracious return, our majestic tree gave us shade on 95 degree day. Our beautiful oak tree had one massive limb that stretched out a good 20 feet or so. My Dad decided that it was the giant arm of the oak tree that would hold the greatest gift of all - a rope swing.
My Dad picked out the perfect plank of wood. To his builders eye, he could see that it would stand up to the rigors of daily usage and the hot Florida sun. He lovingly drilled two holes in it, cut two pieces of the thickest rope he could find, and began to hang my swing. It took more than one throw, as I recall, for him to get the huge lengths of rope up and over the branch that was 30 feet or so off the ground. He tied the rope to the branch in two places, strung it through the holes in the plank, and knotted them on the underside. And voila - there she stood - my beautiful little rope swing.
As a six year old, I actually turned my nose up at this handmade swing. It wasn't metal. There were was no chain from which it hung. It was NOT the swing I had left behind. Little did I know that it was something much better. After much encouragement from Mom (who herself knew all to well, the hours and days I had ahead of me daydreaming as the wind blew my hair,)I climbed on to give it a try.
I pumped my little legs as hard as I could, and she began to take flight. With each change in my pendulum arc, the rope gently creaked. The creaking sound combined with the cicada's pitch, the birds singing and calling to each other in the overhead canopy, and the frogs croaking in the nearby lake, created their own nature's symphony that gently lulled me into a peaceful silence. I created my own wind as my swing took me higher than that sad little metal version I had used before. My imagination opened up and ran wild. I could be a fairy princess, the queen of everything, my own goddess, the ruler of my little kingdom, or I could just be me. My swing gave me freedom, time to process my day, think my thoughts, get distracted by others, or just spend a few moments in beautiful solitude.
So it should come as no surprise, that I gave a moments pause when I took my daughter down to the local rope swing. I had never been before, but she assured me in her four year old confident voice, that she knew just where to find it - "It's next to the X" she informed me. We crossed the street, and sure enough, it was next to the X - the KOA sign to be more exact, but to a four year old, it was an X.
The tree was not nearly so grand as the oak of my youth, the plank not so lovingly worn, and chain hung where ropes should have been. BUT, once my daughter climbed on and took flight, I could see that it didn't matter. She thrilled in adrenaline filled excitement with the new heights she climbed to. She giggled with delight each time my husband pushed her.
In our new and spacious back yard, there stood a 200 year old oak tree that my parents designed their house around. The back porch seemed to reach out to it, and in gracious return, our majestic tree gave us shade on 95 degree day. Our beautiful oak tree had one massive limb that stretched out a good 20 feet or so. My Dad decided that it was the giant arm of the oak tree that would hold the greatest gift of all - a rope swing.
My Dad picked out the perfect plank of wood. To his builders eye, he could see that it would stand up to the rigors of daily usage and the hot Florida sun. He lovingly drilled two holes in it, cut two pieces of the thickest rope he could find, and began to hang my swing. It took more than one throw, as I recall, for him to get the huge lengths of rope up and over the branch that was 30 feet or so off the ground. He tied the rope to the branch in two places, strung it through the holes in the plank, and knotted them on the underside. And voila - there she stood - my beautiful little rope swing.
As a six year old, I actually turned my nose up at this handmade swing. It wasn't metal. There were was no chain from which it hung. It was NOT the swing I had left behind. Little did I know that it was something much better. After much encouragement from Mom (who herself knew all to well, the hours and days I had ahead of me daydreaming as the wind blew my hair,)I climbed on to give it a try.
I pumped my little legs as hard as I could, and she began to take flight. With each change in my pendulum arc, the rope gently creaked. The creaking sound combined with the cicada's pitch, the birds singing and calling to each other in the overhead canopy, and the frogs croaking in the nearby lake, created their own nature's symphony that gently lulled me into a peaceful silence. I created my own wind as my swing took me higher than that sad little metal version I had used before. My imagination opened up and ran wild. I could be a fairy princess, the queen of everything, my own goddess, the ruler of my little kingdom, or I could just be me. My swing gave me freedom, time to process my day, think my thoughts, get distracted by others, or just spend a few moments in beautiful solitude.
So it should come as no surprise, that I gave a moments pause when I took my daughter down to the local rope swing. I had never been before, but she assured me in her four year old confident voice, that she knew just where to find it - "It's next to the X" she informed me. We crossed the street, and sure enough, it was next to the X - the KOA sign to be more exact, but to a four year old, it was an X.
The tree was not nearly so grand as the oak of my youth, the plank not so lovingly worn, and chain hung where ropes should have been. BUT, once my daughter climbed on and took flight, I could see that it didn't matter. She thrilled in adrenaline filled excitement with the new heights she climbed to. She giggled with delight each time my husband pushed her.
And it was then that I remembered what it was about a rope swing that makes you stop and take notice. It's the pure unbridled joy it gives you each time you come to call.
