Tree Swing

A peach tree grew in the backyard between the garden and the house. I climbed its rough, scabrous trunk and made my way as high as I could go, sticking my foot in the crotch of the last two branches that could support my weight. Muddy, gelatin-like fungus grew out from it's forking joints and trimmed branch stubs.

Pop Pop told me of a time when the tree was no bigger than a tulip. He put a little fence up around the area to prevent the lawn mower from cutting it with the rest of the grass until it was big enough

One branch extended out toward the concrete sidewalk near the faucet. For as long as I remember, some sort of twine was tied up in two stops along this branch, looping down a foot above the ground. Sometimes I sat in this loop and pushed off the thick ground swinging back and forth. Other times I stood up, with one foot in the loop and my hands gripped tightly on the skinny rope, swinging almost parallel with the ground.

At the back corner of the house, near the rose bushes, sat a tall pine tree, almost as tall as the two story part of the house on that side. The lower branches were trimmed and the bare trunk exposed. Pop Pop built a swing for me there. Two white ropes hung from a sturdy branch holding a painted yellow piece of wood that was better to swing on than the peach tree's rope.