Photo by Ryan Parker on unsplash
How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!
"Push me Daddy!" said my young son as he climbed into the seat of the tree swing, ready for yet another ride in the shade of a thick elm. Positioned behind him and slightly to one side, I provide the propellant for brief moments of near flight.
Up he goes, pausing for a split second at the peak of his upward motion, then rushing down again with breathtaking swiftness. Up and down, back and forth, passing time on a summer's day.
Between adolescence and fatherhood, I had forgotten about swings. It had been many years since I kicked my legs out at the sky and pulled myself up toward the clouds. Being a Daddy or a Grandpa gives a man another chance at such things.
Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
River and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside--
When building a tree swing, do not use nylon rope. Nylon stretches so much that the swing will be too high to get onto when there is no weight on it, and it will sag down to the ground when you jump onto it. Use heavy, fibrous rope, like that used to bridle a horse or tie a ship to shore.
To get your ropes over the tree branch, try tying a hammer or something similarly heavy to one end and flinging the ropes up and over. Tie a loop in one end of each rope. Tuck the other end of the ropes through the loops to make nooses. Then snug up each noose and attach a seat.
A 14-inch plank of 2 x 6 makes a good seat. A strip of rubber cut from an old tire works well too. Drill half-inch holes on either end. Insert the ropes and tie several knots on the bottom side to keep the rope from sliding out.
Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown--
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!
"You can swing too, Daddy," says my little one. I climb into the seat and he pushes me. With a few kicks, I'm soaring back into my childhood.
I recall a certain summer vacation in British Columbia when I was five or six years old. We were staying at some lodge overlooking a large mountain lake and on its lawn was a huge tree swing. I kicked and pumped on that swing, climbing higher than I'd ever climbed before. I felt certain, looking down, that I was swinging out over the surface of the lake.
Were I to let go of the swing at the high point in my glide I felt certain that I would fly out over the water, spread my wings like a gull and come floating back to earth.
My little boy wants to swing again. "Push me Daddy," he says.
He's four years old now and knows all about kicking out and then curling his legs to propel himself in the swing. He doesn't need my hand at his back, we both know, but he still prefers to be pushed. And knowing my pushing days are numbered, for this generation at least, I am happy to still be of service.
