Swing Time

Just dragged myself in from the front porch swing. Remember Lily Tomlin and Steve Martin inhabiting the same body in All of Me? - wanting/needing to be in two places at the same time. It had gotten so dark the streetlights were coming on. A perfect day for me begins with lolling on that swing in the pre-dawn and seeing the streetlight on the corner of Zephyr and Gentian slowly fade, like its retrieving its glow, calling it inside at the end of the night. Then I'm back at the end of the day, when it shines it's light again. The bugs start their dinner (that would be me) and I finally have to admit surrender to the dark and the itching and go inside.

I’ve been living here for YEARS now, - much of the time spent on my swing. The yard has gone from ratty unkempt lawn to a mulched and floriferous hunk o’, hunk o’ Paradise (to me, anyway…) Now the swing creaks sometimes and so do I. I lie there so long I'm just about frozen in position. Over those years, the wood of the swing has molded to my shape. I struggle to sit up. My Grandmas' voices come out of my mouth: "Oy!"

The swing is on the front deck of my house. It's my front-row seat. The garden wraps around the house - (no lawn.) I've got some castor bean plants at the far edges that have finally grown tall enough to block out my view of the neighbors. I’m a captive audience sometimes to the sound of them living in their hunks o’ The Garden /Motor Shop/ Parking Lot. Their cats - and I'm talking about DOZENS OF THEM - parade by and drive Chance to distraction. Too often he's sent /tossed back into the house in disgrace. (Stop your &*^* BARKING!). I guess we're not all that mellow, either.

The deck is where the seeds sown snooze, keeping me company until they germinate. The new seedlings keep graduating pot-size-wise until they’re ready to either plant out or meet their destiny in some other way. I sit on the swing and watch them grow. Time sometimes doesn't fly when you're having fun. It slows and seems to stop.

I sit on the swing and watch my grandbabes play and grow and the time really does fly by. We've cozied up in this swing and read and rock-a-bye-babied each other. I push, gently rocking. They stare up into my eyes or close theirs. When they get to push me, I hold on for dear life while they feel the surge of power coursing through their little bodies. The wall behind the swing has dents where the swing and I have whacked it over and over with their exuberant shoves until they learned a little constraint. Of course, constraint hasn't the thrill of a screaming Grammy - (Take it EASY! Don't HURT ME!!!!.) and they're not so interested any more. But how many kids can say their grandma taught them to cackle? Now I have to beg to rock or get rock-a-byed. (My daughters didn't realize they didn't have to be rocked in my arms until they were in their 20s…)

I bring my coffee out with the latest library book or magazine. Follow the drips. Or I just sit and rock. I'm good at being alone - it's just a little too often now.

And music! My tunes keep me good company. I’m the proud owner of a downloaded library of EVERY SONG I’VE EVER HEARD . When it was all new, for one brief shining frenzied moment - the downloading was free. Now I pay Amazon or Itunes and I'm (relatively) glad to do it. I can find just about anything I can think of. - I've got Groucho and Bing, the Beatles and the Black Eyed Peas. I love it all. I used to use a boom box out here on the deck, but the Bose Knows it can't be beat. I blast those tunes out open windows and doors and rock out on my swing or dream along. (Those romantic lyrics have ruined me.)

At these ages, though, we can swing, head-bang, boogie, ballroom dance and otherwise humiliate our kids in SO MANY WAYS. (They pull into the driveway, witness atrocities, and try to silently pull out before they're noticed.)

When Molly's here, I still have my coffee out there, but I wear my new Ipod and listen to my darling John Pitzarelli and Jessica Molaskey, their show, Radio Deluxe, downloaded from the computer. (Find it and them and you'll also find Ella, Frank, and anyone old or new playing the great standards. Swing on, I say!) They broadcasted live from Tanglewood a couple of weeks ago, and I don't think I'll ever recover…

I’ve swung with a sweetheart here. Sitting, you know, in that old fashioned, hand-holding way I listen to the wind chimes, the squeaky-shoe frogs and feel enfolded in gratitude to be part of The Garden and It All. Talk about living in the moment. (Of course some of those moments are in the past - so I'm confused for a change.)

I've planted myself on that swing when my heart was broken, too. I've hobbled out there while recovering from the latest "bug", dragged a "bum" foot, and that broken heart out there to try to recoup - sometimes feeling like Ratso Rizzo dying on the bus. I'm doing the dragging a little too often now, too. Who said loneliness can be fun? No one.

I lie on this swing any chance I get. It’s like a magnet and my butt is the, the thing that’s drawn to the magnet. Well, you know what I mean. It’s fatal attraction. I’ve watched butterflies hatch and I’ve napped uneventfully. I’ve done some heavy-duty daydreaming, castle building, scheming and planning on this swing. (I’ve also flung myself off it onto the hard cement when a frog I was admiring on the wall jumped onto my leg and wouldn’t be brushed off. ) So, I’ve been moved to tears in many ways from this vantage point.

And that aforementioned flying time? It's doing it faster than I can stand. My garden has been growing for years now. Growth and death happen. Plants tower that were tiny. Swing butt-print is dangerously curved. But compost is testifying that it isn't over, even when it seems to be, and I'm still curious about other people's magnet spots, am enamored of the Earth and the Mystery and feel rejuvenated by the smallest things. I come from a long line of cockeyed optimists (Grandma Annie et al) on one side of my family - but on the other, women with the blues. So add mood swings to the variations here. No wonder I'm exhausted - yet perky! The weathered swing on the deck doesn't look like the scene of any kind of action, but oh, the emotional DNA you could collect!

Still, often, I lie on my swing savoring how sweet life can be. I’ve got the world on a string, the sun in the morning and the moon at night, raindrops on roses. I’ve got rhythm. Who could ask for anything more? (I guess that, too, might be me…)