As the '49 Mercury pulled up
to the kindergarten playground,
my feet were kicking into the air
while my hands were pulling back
on the chains.
I shouted excitedly to Mom
who was still in the car,
"Mom! Look! I'm swinging!"
She merely smiled back at me,
motioning for us to go.
I had just learned how to swing.
So after a passionate plea,
she acquiesced,
letting me swing
a little longer.
My kindergarten world
was all about
eating graham crackers,
drinking orange juice,
taking a nap,
and swinging.
I developed a taste
for graham crackers and
orange juice,
but I enjoyed spending time
on the swings even more.
One of the foolhardy stunts
my elementary schoolmates and I
used to do was bailing out of the swing
to see how far we could jump.
We didn't know anything about
swing amplitude,
pendulum motions,
gravitational energy, or
kinetic energy.
We were just poor ignorant
southern boys
who knew how to work
the fun out of a swing.
Being courageously stupid,
we knew that you had to be
looking out over
the top bar of the swing
to gain the right momentum
for a good jump.
The tricky part was
in the release angle,
which was the flying by
the seat of your pants.
When it was time for recess,
my two jump buddies and I
would walk through the hallway
like fidgety race horses
heading to the starting gate,
itching to make a go of it.
Seats were limited.
After so many flights and landings
packed into fifteen minutes,
the clanging of the bell
grounded all flights,
like bad weather,
as we darted back to class.
As we quickly
made our way
to our seats,
the teacher would warn us
about running in her classroom.
The residual adrenaline
pumping through our bodies
always directed her attention
to the dirt beads,
gracing our necks and arms.
The gray sandy soil
stuck to our sweaty bodies
like magnets.
"Have you boys been jumping
out of the swings?" She probed.
We all three shook our heads
in denial.
She suspected to the contrary
but never pressed the issue.
"Well, you boys go to the
little boys room and wash up
and get back here pronto!"
She demanded.
As we left our desks
she barked out more instructions,
"Don't run, walk; and keep quiet!
And I better not catch any of you
ever jumping out of the swings;
do you all hear me?"
"Yes, Mrs. So & So,"
we replied in unrehearsed unison.
She continued belting out
for all the class to hear,
"I don't like any of my students
attending my class
dirty or smelly!"
We looked at each other
grinning as we left the classroom.
Mrs. So & So never caught us
letting loose of the chains on the swings.
We knew she only pretended to care.
She knew her pretentious protests
would only spur us on
to jump further and higher,
and it did!
Apart from minor abrasions or
the occasional breath knock out of us,
we miraculously never broke our necks,
much to the dismay of Mrs. So & So;
I am sure of it.
Due to a lack of opportunity,
I may have gotten off to a late start
in learning how to jump out of a swing.
But an eager boy, such as myself,
could easily make up for lost ground
flying by the seat of his pants
in reckless abandon.
Frost was a swinger of birches,
launching into the air and
softly returning back to earth again.
But a Florida boy could do no worse
than be letting loose of the chains,
flying freely through the air
and landing on his feet,
dirt bead free.
