The Swing and Tent Part 1

In the springtime, on that first day of warmth, the day that ushered away the days of bulky coats and winter hats and brought in the tee-shirt afternoons and sweater nights, I ran outside to meet the day. Enough time had always gone by to forget the freshness of early spring the year before to make the birth of the new summer just as warm, beautiful, and stunning as the very first time I was conscious enough to experience it. I looked up to the floating clouds, collapsing inward and slowly expanding in spots. I had missed them all winter, having never taken the time to look up as I walked, slid and shoveled my way through the winter snow.

My grandfather didn't run outside and enjoy the day in exactly the same way I did, he had his own way of getting ready for the ever increasing warmth of spring and summer afternoons.

"Jonathan," he said, getting my attention. "Wanna give me a hand bringing the swing out?"

I always agreed. The big wooden swing always that sat at the back of the garage, that's where it sat all winter. From here, we each grabbed an end and carried it to the backyard. The dark brown swing hung from a green painted metal frame, maybe from an old kid's swing-set from long ago. I never cared enough to asked.

What I did care about was how much the giant swing weighed. It always took a great deal of my strength, but with a break or two in between, Pop Pop and I always managed to get it to the area and attach the tops of the swing's chains to the green flaking frame.