The swing was something special, it swung on grandma’s porch, sat upon by loved ones as it slowly rocked back and forth.  My mother, sister and I, grandma, my brother and me, my sister, brother and I, the sittings changing with each swing.  We sat upon the swing in the evening, after dinner, as dusk fell.  Dusk was a special time, time of family, time of connecting, time of loving.  The creaking of the floor as the rocking chairs rocked, the creaking of the ceiling as the swing swung, the dog barking in the distance, the whippoorwill calling, lighting bugs flashing. It was a magical time as we sat and rocked in the swing.

    The swing was made by my Father and his brother, in shop class at Reddick High in the depression years, just before the war.  Dad told me must yesterday, he brother cut off part of his thumb while building the swing.  The swing swung hung on the front porch, waiting for his return from the War.  He married and we, the children swung on the swing through the fifties.  Grandma sold the farm, yes, a cliché, but true, but dad saved the swing.  It hung under the chinaberry tree in the back yard and we would sit up on it and swing.     

  So this day I honor my father and his swing as I built a new swing.  A swing which hangs on my back porch, a swing upon which my father, brother or sisters can sit and remember of times past.  And upon special moments, if you look close, there my mother sits.   A swing that will make connections, connections deeply rooted.

Larry Mixson, 07-01-2019