The Demise of the Tire Swing

Every now and then I feel the desire to stop and feel the harsh texture of tree bark as I pass it.  And, if the wind is right, the leaves rustling just so, I’m reminded of an old, filthy tire swing tied with twine rope to the towering oak near my grandparent’s house.  Catching the sun, my eyes blink, but stay closed for a minute, lost in recollection.

            My memories of the tire swing are limited.  I can remember is the rush of excitement as I clung to that withering tire as it flew up and down, up and down, as many times as Grandpa would push me and one more.  The tire swing sat on the edge of the woods, the abrupt border between my grandparent’s manicured lawn and the untamed wilderness.  The tree grew on the top of the biggest hill I’d seen, so enormous that I wouldn’t even ride my bike down it for fear of loosing control, falling, and shattering in a million pieces.  And for years, from my deepest and earliest memories, the tire swing was the main attraction at Nana and Grandpa’s house.  Every visit meant more and more trips up the hill, more and more swings back and forth and back and forth.  It was a perfect world.

            At some point over the years things changed.  The city was building a road right next to my grandparent’s house, bulldozing the woods and uprooting the massive tree.  So the swing would have to come down.  My days in the woods were threatened; time spent catching grasshoppers and weaving my bike through the trees during breaks from thrilling rides on the tire swing could never happen again.  Though I was probably initially devastated at the news, I soon learned that life would continue with or without my precious tire swing.

            I started kindergarten and eventually forgot about my days spent flying on the swing.  It left my mind completely for years until a routine visit to my grandparent’s house last spring.  Though they had bulldozed the woods more than a decade prior, the city had finally decided to build the road where they had indicated.  With each of my successive visits, the road emerged from grass to cement to eventually traffic.  Though it had been over a decade since I’d last seen or even thought about the tire swing, seeing the road where my playground used to be made me feel more grown up and separated from my childhood than when I’d gotten my car or even graduated from high school.  Even now it feels oddly nostalgic whenever I see the road.  But even though the site of these memories is forever gone, my memories still persist.  I’ll never forget that old tire swing.