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Childhood memories last forever

IT DON’T mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.

My Great Uncle Lawrence was disabled in a coal mine accident. His back was broken, and he was not able to do much at all after the surgery to repair the damage.

He had a small woodworking bench he could sit at and he would build little crafts out of wood. He made those windmills that had characters that were animated by the spinning propeller, and they would chop or saw wood and perform other repetitive tasks as the wind blew.

One item he made was quite special to me. It was not a cute animated windmill, but rather a simple wooden swing. He attached a rope to the front of the seat just below the wooden safety rail that slid up and down. He designed and made this swing so he could sit and swing me back and forth. He built it solely for the purpose of entertaining me when I was a small child, and swinging in it is one of my favorite memories of childhood.

We lived in the house in which my mother was born, and it was next door to Lawrence and his wife, my mother’s Aunt Anna, when I was a small child. My mom’s mother had died when she was just starting high school, and Anna had taken over the role of matriarch for the family. She was more of a grandma to us and always made us feel very special when we crossed the driveway to visit.

Anna and Lawrence never had any children of their own, which is sad when I think of how much they loved our visits. Aside from a sink in the kitchen and a spigot in the basement, they did not have indoor plumbing. Anna washed in an old wringer washer and carried the water by bucket loads to the washtub. There was an outhouse in the back yard and a galvanized metal bucket with a wooden potty chair for nighttime use.

The house was always immaculately clean. My mom used to tell us that the floors were clean enough to eat off of; however, Anna never allowed us to fully test this theory.

The house always smelled of mothballs and fresh-baked bread. Homemade candy, cookies and ice cream were kept in the kitchen in an old refrigerator that had the motor on top like the one in “The Honeymooners” television show.

The back porch had no railing so it was strictly off limits, and trips down the basement stairs were only allowed with an escort. The front porch was where Anna kept her potted plants and where Lawrence sat with his binoculars and watched the birds. He knew each of them by name and would tell us all about them when they appeared in one of the trees in the yard.

Of course, the sycamore tree was my favorite because that is where the swing would hang from two ropes looped and tied over a limb. I never asked how a man who walked with a cane accomplished the task of getting the ropes way up over the limbs, but a man that resourceful could have easily managed such a task.

It was almost like flying to swing back and forth with the wind blowing through your hair. Uncle Lawrence would always have some information to share about nature or a story to tell about when my mom was a little girl or about working in the coal mines. He always added that I was not going to be a coal miner. He had other plans for me, but never lived to see if his advice was taken. He died in 1976, but his legacy lives on through me.

I have a swing that hangs on the front porch that, every chance I get, I take time to swing my granddaughter, Zoey, in. I am an experienced swinger because all three of my children spent many hours in a swing during their childhoods. I sing silly songs, explain nature or recite numbers and the alphabet to her as she swings.

I have a knack for putting the children I swing to sleep. My wife and now my daughter appreciate this ability. Despite theories that I bore them to sleep, I think that it is actually a state of relaxation created by the rhythmic swinging motion that puts them to sleep. You see, the brain’s primary task is to perceive environmental stimuli accurately and to generate appropriate responses quickly. Yet, neurons not only respond to stimuli. They also often respond in a rhythmic fashion.

All right, never mind, I am boring them to sleep.

Palmer may be reached at mpalmer@timesleader online.com

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