June 04, 2007

Daydreams and Memories

It is mid-July. The air is a little sticky, but I don't mind. I am in my own world. As I swing higher and higher, the air fans my warm skin. I look out over a landscape that has no hills or valleys. As far as the eye can see, there are flat farmland fields of corn, or mowed fields of stubble with bales of hay lined up neatly in rows which seem to stretch into infinity�or to the next hedgerow of trees.

The sounds I hear are those of the chains supporting the swing�creaking captives of their overhead hooks; my bare feet rhythmically hit the wooden floorboards of the porch, which extends around two sides of a Victorian farmhouse. The home was strategically placed high on a gentle rise in the terrain. Giant elms seem alive with the undulating chorus of cicadas...rising to a crescendo and then slowing to a hush�a competing cacophony of creatures all vying for the lead in the chorus. Occasionally the distant lowing of cattle�or the grunting of rooting hogs in the barnyard interrupts the quiet.

Now and again, the hum of an approaching car is heard as it crosses the mile of oiled gravel road stretching in both directions past the house. The countryside was long ago plotted into square miles in order for the townships to be settled. To the south and west lie the rolling hills of Indiana and Missouri. But this part of central Illinois is pure prairie. The farm roads intersect "the hard road" a few miles away. Twenty-six miles to the northwest is Springfield. Ten miles to the southeast is Taylorville. I remember it as though it were yesterday.

This is where I spent my childhood summers. This is where I fell in love with a porch swing. My mind could travel as far as the eye could see as I pumped and pushed myself higher and higher. And my imagination could take me far beyond that.

For over thirty years, our present home has had a swing hanging from the back patio cover. It has been hardy and faithful. Albums of pictures were taken of family and friends, neighbor children, and family pets, special occasions and everyday sitting�on this old swing.

It had developed a broken slat (covered with a seat cushion); it had peeling white paint and rusty chains. It had been nailed together time and again. Once one hook came loose from the ceiling and one side dropped at an angle to the floor, startling its occupants. But it was rehung and served a few more years.

Recently I had a birthday. I said, �You know what I really need? A new porch swing.�

I felt a twinge of sadness as I saw the rusty chains taken down and replaced with shiny new ones. But it was time.

For some of us, our lives are recounted by a succession of moves, or jobs, or cars, or�

For me, I recall a succession of wonderful porch swings from where I view my world. Sunsets, flower gardens, corn fields, and �Katydids��picnics, and barbeques, swimming parties and weather of all kinds; fireflies and mosquitoes, honey bees and dragon flies�reading and napping, daydreams and memories.

A good porch swing is a time capsule.

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