The Porch Swing

 

I would get a lot more done, I think, if I didn’t have a porch swing.

My first memories of this swing were of my grandmother.  I grew up in a multi generation household, with my grandparents, an uncle and my mother and daddy.  My mother worked in a local department store from the time I could first remember, so I was at home with my grandmother, who I called Nanny, during the day.  We spent a lot of time outside and on the front porch.  Like most southern farmhouse porches, it extended almost the width of the house, the ceiling was painted haint blue and the swing was painted to match.  Nanny would sit in the swing and we would play.  From an early age, I loved to make up stories, which I would act out with cooperation from Nanny.  My favorite, or at least the one I remember best, was about a little girl named Josie, who loved to ride horses.  I don’t remember a lot about Josie, except she rode in a lot of horse shows.  (I had a stable full of stick horses that lived on the front porch.) There was also a snooty neighbor woman, whose name I have forgotten, who didn’t approve of little girls who rode horses and Nanny and I used to have quite a time dealing with her.  That’s all I recall of our play acting, but it’s enough to give me a wonderful memory of our time together.  We sang, told stories and dreamed dreams.  Nanny probably didn’t get much work done either.

My mom started babysitting after she “retired” from public work.  She and her young charges spent a lot of time in the porch swing too.  I have vivid memories of her sitting in the swing with the first of many children, who actually was more like part of the family than a paying customer.   They would sing hymns like Lily of the Valley, In the Garden and Swing Low Sweet Cheerio (Julie’s pronunciation for Chariot).  As time went on and Mom’s baby-sitting subjects increased, other small children sat and sang with her in that swing and became part of the family.  Sometimes the swing got pretty crowded, but they always made room for one more.  She cooked lunch every day for all those children, worked in the garden, kept the house reasonably clean, yet seemed to have a lot of time for the porch swing.  To be fair, work took place there too – green beans to snap, corn to shuck, and peas to shell, with a pan for everyone.

So now I have moved back into my childhood home and I spend way too much time sitting in that old swing, now painted white, with the dogs at my feet and the breeze sweeping across the porch that extends almost the full width of this old farmhouse.  Early mornings, I watch the sun come up and the birds come to the feeders.  In the evening the owls and whippoorwills call and the sunset reflects orange and pink on the eastern sky.  At night I watch the stars sing, the fireflies flash, and the moon shed its cool light over the grass.  It’s a great place to watch a thunderstorm and listen to drum of rain on the tin roof.  And on summer evenings, I break my beans, shuck my corn and hum Swing Low, Sweet Cheerio as memories wash over me.  I still tell stories, dream dreams and think about past dreams that came true.

 I need to repaint the swing this summer.  I noticed a chip last week of the original color showing through.  I’m going to try to find some haint blue paint.  I think Nanny would be pleased.  Several of my mom’s “children” now have young children of their own.  Maybe I can teach some of them to break beans and shuck corn in that old porch swing.  We might even sing a verse or two of “Swing Low, Sweet Cheerio.”