Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Tag Archives: swing


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Launched.

People from miles around envied the swings on our playground at Washington Elementary. And by people, I mostly mean the other grade-schoolers up the street at St. Mary’s. Those at LIncoln School had their own, but I imagine they were still impressed. The chains were so long. And the straps of the seats didn’t cut into your thighs. They were perfection. And placed as they were, after pumping for several minutes, and perhaps aided with a slight push from behind from your best friend who dared the thrust of your return, if you stretched your legs at the height of your swing, it appeared as if you were climbing atop the roof of the school. What a thrill to reach that height. And it was that thrill of being lifted that made my stomach jump to my throat, and gave me the courage to face anything the school would offer after the ringing of the recess bell.

Imagine my delight, the first time it happened without the aid of chain links and gravity. I had just cut my finger on the very razor blade in the kitchen bureau that my grandma told me not to touch. It was my heart that sank first. Not because it hurt that badly, but because I was sure she would no longer love me. Still operating under the rudimentary conditions of the playground, where friends were lost and gained in one recess, I started to cry. She wiped her ever dish soaped hands on her apron and knelt before me. Walked me to the bathroom sink and cleaned my minor wound on my finger, but the one on my heart remained. I was still small enough to be shattered, but too big to be carried, so she walked me to grandpa’s recliner. She sat down first, making that happy sound of a cushion expanding. She told me to stand in front. She grabbed the wooden lever on the side, and with that one swoop, she launched the recliner’s leg, and lifted me off of mine into her lap. My belly jumped, along with my heart, and I could only laugh. I knew I could face anything, as long as she loved me.

Even typing this, my belly races to my heart, and I am saved.

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Knee deep enthusiasm.

For my thirteenth birthday my mother gifted me a set of starter golf clubs purchased from the Sears catalog. No one in our family golfed, that I knew of…but that never stopped me before. Neither had they painted a picture, nor written a poem, so the ship that housed the fear of the unknown had already sailed, and I made my way to the golf course. 

She could afford the junior summer membership at Arrowwood. Not a second of which could be wasted, she picked me up on her 30 minute lunch break and drove me to the course, slowing down the light blue Chevy Malibu station wagon just long enough for me to drag the emerald green cotton golf bag from the rear, loaded with six catalog clubs. 

I knocked my way solo from tee to woods to pond to green. Smiling with each stroke under the summer sun. On the weekends, if she wasn’t too tired, or mostly I suppose, even if she was, she walked the nine holes with me. And even when my ball ended with a splash or a ricochet, she marveled and said, “I can’t believe you hit it that far!” And she was the first in pond or forest to retrieve my short supply of balls. 

I think of it, her, as I struggle with my morning French lesson. If today were a golf course, I would be momentarily demoralized by my working class swing, that is, until I see her, and I do see her, her knee deep enthusiasm from the pond, hand raised overhead with ball, yelling, “I’ve got this! You’ve got this!” What can I do but keep trying! I, we, in everything we do, owe it to those who came before us, who walked beside us — we have to keep trying!  

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An actual rally.

The guaranteed impermanence of both the net and our interest, allowed us to put up the badminton game in our grandma’s front yard. No matter how far we stretched the poles, there was a permanent sag in the middle, which ultimately worked to our advantage. Each shuttlecock, or birdie as we called it, was worn down to the nubs, either by racket or grandpa’s truck that drove over them. We swung with exuberance, hitting mostly only summer farm breezes. We struggled to keep score — the real “wins” coming in the few moments we could strike up an actual rally. 

When I see them play badminton at the Olympic level, I have to laugh. It is not the same game. I mention it only because I’m reminded how we do this in our daily lives — compare our experiences. When someone tells us of a certain struggle or situation, we are often so quick to say, “Oh, I’ve been through that, it’s not so hard”… or “Here’s what you should do…” or “just get over it…” The thing is, we’re not playing the same game. What might be a swing in a summer breeze to you, may be an international struggle for someone else. Neither right nor wrong. Just different. The best we can do, I suppose, is to sag the net a little and help each other rally. Maybe in doing so, we can all get back to the comfort of a summer breeze, in our time and in our way, and we could all win.

Perhaps it’s just an Olympic size dream raised up from the barefooted grass of my grandparent’s farm, but I owe it to myself, we owe it to ourselves, to keep swinging!

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Turns.

Maybe with girls, it’s all about timing.

There wasn’t a swing for every girl at Washington Elementary. When your class was released for recess, the playground had to be divided and navigated. It was always a race out the back door to the swingset. These weren’t just ordinary swings. They were the tallest that any of us had ever seen.  With the help of your best friend pushing from behind, you could reach unimaginable heights. Deals were always struck minutes before recess. Partnering off. Who would run. Secure the swing. The first one. The last. The ones in the middle. Who would ride first. Push first. We learned early on, working together, we’d all get to fly! 

We didn’t have phones with stop watches. We didn’t even have watches. But somehow we knew. Because friends were known. Some days you just needed a little extra time. Maybe the spelling test was harder for one. Maybe the new boy teased you. Whatever the reason, it never had to be explained, just a look, a look that said, I need an extra turn. And it was always given. 

I have a few friends like this still today. We know each other’s timing. When to push. When to step back and just watch you fly! Knowing the roles could be reversed at any given moment. Timing — impossible to monitor electronically — it can only be measured by the heart. 

I’m feeling strong today. Just give me the look, and when the doors are flung open, I’ll race to secure the swing. Today, my friend, it’s your turn to fly!

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Kick. And push. And soar!

There was such freedom in it. Learning to swing. The first few years, having to ask, can you push me? Again? Knowing if they left, it would be all over. It was so limiting. So discouraging. Just you, hanging there. But then one day it happens. Fed up with the waiting. The depending. You push off from the ground. Reach your legs forward a little. Then ride it back. Curling your legs in. A little further this time. Pointing your toes. Back again. Further. Hugging in your knees. Then releasing. Pointing those toes to the sky. Hair blowing. Heart racing. Legs pumping. You are doing it on your own. How glorious! You’re swinging! All on your own!

I guess that’s what happiness is. You can wait around for someone else to make you happy, or you can figure it out on your own. You can create your own joy. You can pump and reach and fling yourself into the beauty all around you! Then you have something to share.

And, if you’re lucky, someone might come along and sit beside you. Fly along beside you. And you can turn to them and smile – a smile that says – hey, this is really some ride!

My legs are pumping. The day begins. I’ll see you up there!

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