My Childhood Swing

Today, for some reason, I remembered my childhood swing.

I grew up in a small village in Bavaria. Our property was located on a steep slope. At the top of the slope there was a tree. It was a tall, broad tree. Its bark was a pale grey. Its branches were wide. I don't remember it having acorns, but maybe it was an oak? I don't know.

Well, on that tree my father had mounted a wooden swing hung from sisal ropes. The swing was long, very long.

I remember trying to swing high, wanting the tip of my toes to reach the clouds. The sky seemed bluer, brighter then, but maybe it is just so with the sky of childhood? It seems the air was always filled with the smell of manure. "Country air" is what my parents called it. Cows moo-ing. Birds chirping.

I loved swinging. I still do when I get a chance.

I remember the feeling of butterflies in my tummy when I went too high. I loved that feeling. I'm longing for my childhood swing.