The Porch Swing

This is part of the “Tell Me a Story” collection of stories.  To know the neighborhood and kids, please check out the map and “whos who” pages first for some context.

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So, this is a story of a porch swing and flying.

I think we were typical of kids.  We were attracted to the extremes of faster, higher, funnier.  We did things on-the-spot, just to do it.

Jimmy and Albert’s grandma lived across the street from us, to the right of their house. It was a well-kept, white single-story with green shutters and had a nice covered porch that spanned the whole width of the house. Looking at the house from the curb, on the left side there was a porch swing that was large enough for three adults. It was set so that it would swing like a pendulum parallel to the front of the house. One end of the arc was toward the front door, the other end toward a set of bushes that lined the end of the porch.

These porch swings were part of old Southern culture and this was a fine example. Wood, painted white, suspended by sturdy swing-set chains and the whole thing was solidly eye-bolted into the wooden porch ceiling.

A few times a week, as the sun set on our blistering hot summer days, I could look across the street and see Grandma and maybe Jimmy and Albert’s mom and dad gently swinging back and forth in the white wooden swing.  The back of the swing was toward the bushes off the porch and Mint Juleps had to be sitting on the small white wrought iron chair-side table.

One mid-summer afternoon it was humid and there was a thunderstorm rolling in and you could smell it as fat raindrops began to sprinkle on the hot street. Jimmy, Johnny, Albert, Cheryl and me were in the street in front of my house messing with a football.

As it started to rain harder, we moved onto Grandma’s porch. Jimmy, Albert and Cheryl sat on the porch swing and started to rock slowly back and forth.  There wasn’t enough action. They asked if we could give them a push, so Johnny and I stood in back of the swing and gave the swing gentle shoves as it reached its apex, and started down the bottom part of its arc.  Not too hard and things were fine.

Of course, this wasn’t enough.

Then, Johnny and I crawled on top of Albert Jimmy and Cheryl and the five of us started to swing together.  

We discovered that if we timed it just right, by shifting our weight and coordinating our movements we could make the swing’s arc go higher and higher without anyone pushing us. So the five of us were piled on each other, getting higher and higher until our heads almost touched the porch ceiling. You didn’t see this shit in the Sears catalog.  We were laughing and having a great time.  We weren’t noticing that the two big eye bolts that were in the ceiling, holding the chains that were holding the swing had begun to loosen.  

By now, it was raining pretty hard, enough so you could hear the raindrops hit the street and feel the wet as the thunderstorm gusts blew the rain blew into the porch, slickening the grey painted, concrete porch floor.

Then, it just happened.  Together, both eyebolts tore right out of that ceiling and swing broke loose right at the apex of the outward arc leading off the porch.  The swing, with the five of us piled on top of each other, was launched off the porch.

We were flying through the air, backwards!

Over the wet bushes and landing in a heap in the soaking wet lawn. I recall we weren’t laughing as we picked ourselves up amid a tangle of chains with the eyebolts still attached and a messed up wooden swing.  One of the arms was broken off, and the back was separating from the seat.

We were all dazed at just what happened and we were actually pretty quiet as we each realized two things:  we were super lucky none of us were hurt and we were in trouble. Our story would be that we were just gently rocking back and forth and somehow, the eyebolts ripped out from the ceiling and the swing blasted over the bushes into the lawn.

No one would believe that.

How would we get out of this?  

We wouldn’t.

As luck would have it, Jimmy and Albert’s father, coming home from work, drove his sea-green Chevy pick up into the driveway at that very moment that we were lifting the busted swing to move it onto the porch.  

We were caught.  

The rain had stopped.  Mister got out of his truck and walked over to the five of us.  He was short, trim, kept everything ship-shape and a disciplinarian.  We were afraid. You know how dread can make time almost stop and you remember details.  I can smell the rain drying on the still-warm pavement.

Mister, hands on hips observed the scene through his wire rims.  “Anyone hurt?” he asked his oldest son, Albert.. “No, we’re all okay,” and then Albert started telling him The Truth-how we all got on the swing and just lost control.  Then, out of nervousness and to support Albert, we all just started blurting in how sorry we were and that we would never do it again.

He looked at us through wire-rims and just let out a deep breath.

“I’m just glad you all are okay,” he said almost softly. “You could have really been hurt. That swing could have landed on top of you.”

With that, he picked up the swing himself and carried it to the porch.  

We were braced to get the big “talkin-to” and be in big trouble.  But, that never happened and his calm probably had more of an impression on us. We learned some things that day.  Sometimes speaking quietly is more powerful than going beserk.

Within a week, Grandma and Jimmy and Albert’s parents were once again rocking back and forth in the summer evenings, talking about their day.  They probably spent a bit of time talking living in a neighborhood of hellion kids.  

The swing was fixed, we were all still together, and our summer just went on.

The End