When I was a little girl, we used to go over to my grandpa's house. Grandpa had a red swing set built out of iron pipes with big fat chains and a straight wooden seat. This was well before the age of child safety laws that now seem to require so many seat constraints that swinging is hardly the exhilarating experience it was when I was a kid. There was something thrilling about knowing that I could swing high and fall out of the swing seat if I didn't hold on tight enough. From the time I was four, I knew how to clench tightly to the chain. I would swing until my hands blistered up. Eventually, Grandpa built me my own swing set for our backyard in New Orleans. Well into high school, I would go out and swing late into the night. My parents eventually devised a signal of flashing the lights from inside when I had a phone call or when it was time to come in and get ready for bed. I often swung with the lights on, but during the times of the year when the swarming termites were thick, I'd just turn out the lights and swing in pitch blackness. I lived in worlds of fantasy and excitement--creating stories in my head from books I'd read, and escaping into them while feeling the wind on my face. I remember being so young and so happy.

Then, like often happens, I grew up. I married and moved away from home and my beloved swing set. When my parents called me to tell me they were selling the house in New Orleans and moving to Baton Rouge, I made sure they were going to take the swing set with them. They told me in return that they would, but they wouldn't set it up at their new place. They would wait for me to get a house with a backyard. After all, the swing set was built for me by Grandpa. Years of sun had bleached the fire engine red of the swing set, so Dad said he'd paint it for me. He asked if I wanted black or red. Naturally, I wanted red. The swing set was always red. Shortly after we moved into our house, my parents came for a visit carrying the long heavy pipes strapped to the top of their Tahoe. The V that you see here in the picture fell right in front of the windshield. It was quite a sight on the road, I'm sure.

The swing set is really rather ugly. I'm thinking about changing the look of it to match my image of an English Cottage Garden in my backyard (which is a pipedream for a Dallas yard). It has bleached from the Texas sun and the seats have cracked and warped. The chains have rusted where the hand holds are and need to be replaced with a more comfortable chain. I think I will paint it black and stain the wood seats. I would like to hang a bench swing where two of the individual swings are meant to be. In the end, the only remaining bit from Grandpa will be the metal frame. Grandpa left this world in 1994, but the swing set will keep him forever alive in my memory.

For others who are wrapped up in chains, see the Thursday Challenge Forum.