Swinging

How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
River and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside--

Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown--
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!

I’ve always loved to swing. And I’ve always loved that poem by Robert Louis Stevenson. I first heard that poem while watching Captain Kangaroo when I was very small. Later, in the fourth grade, I memorized the poem under the guidance of my wonderful teacher, Miss Charlotte Conley. We always had swings nearby when I was small – in our yard, on the school playground, and in several parks near our home. At every house we’ve lived in our married life, we’ve set up a swing. At one point at this house we had three swings hanging from the big maples. There’s just one now, but it’s a good one. I go out sometimes and swing on it in the evenings.

Our swing.

When I was child, we had a lawn glider swing in our back yard on Bridge Street. It was painted dark green and sat in the lower part of the yard under the huge cherry tree. The swing was part of the garden legacy left to us by my grandfather, Lawrence Evered Howe (we always call him Papa). He died when I was two and I don’t remember him, but my sister Hollie does. I’ve heard stories of Papa and the swing. When he was older and blind, he used to sit on the swing and listen for birds marauding in the cherry tree above him. He kept pieces of cut up garden hose by his side and when he thought he heard a bird, he would fling a piece of hose in its direction to scare it away. Hollie had the job of gathering the pieces of hose and bringing them back to him. In my memories, that swing was a magical machine. My brother, sisters, cousins, and I played on it all the time and it was never just a swing. We pretended it was a number of amazing vehicles – a stagecoach, a ship, an airplane, or a rocket ship. It transported us on the sort of adventures that children back then imagined – to visit other planets where strange creatures attacked us, or to jungles or the wild west where ferocious animals or hostile natives attacked us. Our adventures were always dangerous, but the swing was always fast enough to save us from every peril. When I was ten, we moved away from that house. The swing was still there when we visited over the following few years. And then on one visit, it wasn’t there anymore. I don’t know what happened to it. It is gone and the cherry tree is gone and our yard on Bridge Street is now a parking lot. Only the memories remain.

There was a swing just like the swing in the yard on Bridge Street in the yard at this house too. It stood under the pine trees in what is now part of my woodland garden. This house once belonged to my grandparents and, when they moved down state, it belonged to my aunts, Papa’s sisters. Papa loved this place and came to visit often. I don’t know when the swing in this yard was built, but I imagine he had a hand in it. Over my childhood years when we visited my aunts here, we played on their swing. It was still here in 1985 when Stacey and I brought our newborn son, Geoffrey, to visit, but it was pretty dilapidated by then. By the time we moved here in 2000, the swing was gone, but the four flat stones that its corners rested on were still there. They are still there. I uncovered them last week while working in the woodland garden. That’s what brought on this lengthy reminiscence. I’ve planned for as long as we’ve lived here to build another swing and set it on those same stones. I even bought plans, but as soon as I looked them over, I realized it was beyond my pathetic construction skills. I still hope to have a swing there, but someone with more skill will have to build it. I would like my grandchildren to go on imagined adventures on a swing like the one I loved.

The swing at this house in 1985 when we visited here.

Me with baby Geoffrey on my Aunts' swing.

The place where a swing will one day be again.

The plans for the swing someone else will build for me.

July is when the summer world starts to look mature. The tall grasses in the unmowed fields are losing their green and ripening to gold. The hayfields have been cut twice and will soon be cut again. My own lawn has slowed its rampant growth and only needs mowing twice a week now. By the end of the month I will mow only once a week and even less frequently after that. The flowerbeds have now settled into summer. After the poppies and lilies fade away in another week or two, the beds will be filled with the same flowers –  mostly dahlias, marigolds, zinnias, and phlox – until fall and frost (I shudder as I write that). I love summer flowers, but that thought always makes me feel sad.

The vegetable garden still has a long way to go. The cilantro has bolted and the lettuce has gone bitter from the heat, but everything else got off to a slow start because our spring was so wet and chilly. There are green tomatoes and peppers waiting to ripen. The squash and cucumbers have yet to bloom. It didn’t help things that something, a deer or a woodchuck, ate the tops off my cucumber vines. They’ll survive, but it delays them even more. And the cabbages and broccoli are still headless. I did see some raspberries ripening. That made me happy. They are one of my favorite fruits.

Part of the long border.

The long border.

It takes me a little longer to do the chores these days. The chores haven’t grown any harder and I haven’t grown weary of them. No, I take longer because I dawdle. The path to the barn between the chicken yard and the road is lined with milkweed and it is in full bloom now and I always walk along there slowly to inhale the wondrous smell of them. I also take time to search for caterpillars. They’ve become an obsession.

I’ve been having lots of encounters with the insect order Lepidoptera this summer. There are Monarch Butterfly caterpillars (Danaus plexippus) in the milkweeds and Red Admiral caterpillars (Vanessa atalanta) in the nettles, which I like. There are White Cabbage Butterfly caterpillars (Pieris rapae) in my brassicas, which I don’t like. Last week while weeding my carrot patch, I found another caterpillar. This one was a Black Swallowtail (Papilio polyxenes), one of the prettiest of them all. I don’t mind it eating a few carrot leaves because they are such lovely creatures.

The Black Swallowtail caterpillar in my carrot patch.

A Black Swallowtail butterfly.

Another unwelcome insect made its appearance last week. Just when I naively thought again that the Japanese Beetles (Popillia japonica) might not show up this year, they arrived in force – as they always do. One day there weren’t any, and the next day my rose bushes were full of them. So the war begins once more. I go out in the mornings when the beetles are sluggish and pick them off and drop them into a jar of soapy water to drown them. I can gather a hundred of them and the next morning there are always more. If I was ever tempted to fog my garden with a deadly insecticide, it would be to annihilate the Japanese Beetles. But I won’t do that. And even if I did, more would just fly in to take their place. So I am resigned to keep up the battle on a small scale.

Japanese Beetles in my roses.

Last week the weather was perfect. The mornings were cool and dewy. The afternoons were warm and balmy. The evenings were sweet and fragrant. It was summer at its finest. These summer mornings were made for taking walks. There is a loveliness in the dewy haze and soft light that beckons me to go out and walk. I usually walk the garden, the orchard, and the perimeter of the property, but some mornings I have to go further – up the road past the beaver pond, or up to the hollow. I love to be out when the sun finally rises over the hills and the tree tops light up and the humid haze glows gold. I love dew drenched meadows and the smell of the drying grass as the sun warms the earth. I can’t resist engulfing myself in such mornings. To miss one seems to me a summer tragedy. I’ll dream of mornings like this in days to come and long for them.

Hazy summer morning.

On a walk to the hollow.

In the hollow.

The road home.

Home again.

Yesterday I was home alone. Stacey and Miriam were in Palmyra all day. The Hill Cumorah Pageant is underway right now. Our branch, because we are part of the Palmyra Stake, has an assignment every year to help at the Hill and Stacey and Miriam volunteered to be there from 9:00 A.M. to 1:00 P.M. They like doing that. They volunteer every year. I do not like to do that, so I stayed home. The Hill Cumorah Pageant is about to go away. Next year, 2020, will be the last performance. The Pageant is a big production with 700 cast members, 1,300 costumes, and a 10-level stage. It has been going on since 1937. Since we moved here we have gone almost every year. Stacey and others in our family have volunteered to fill assignments over the years. In 2017, Josiah was on the work crew for the Pageant. In years past we would go to the performances with visiting family. We have happy memories of the great picnic lunches Kurt and Julie prepared on our Pageant excursions. This year we have no out of town family visiting and I don’t know if we will go. Next year we will for sure, so anyone who has planned to visit us and go to the Pageant will only have one more chance.

Miriam took this photo from the top of the Hill Cumorah.

Stacey and Miriam at the Hill Cumorah.

I was home alone, but not entirely alone or home all day. Julie has a friend visiting her and they wanted to go on The Amish Run. Some of the Amish shops have changed location since Julie last went on an Amish Run, so I went along as guide. First we went to the dry goods store now out by Fox Hill and made our purchases there. Next we went to visit my friend Ervin Coblentz in Harrison Township and had a nice long conversation with him. After that we went to the Detwilers who make baskets and now live over in Mills. Then we stopped at the novelty store in Bingham Township, but they were closed. Our last stop was the dairy (non-Amish) in Newfield so I could get a gallon of milk. It was a good excuse for me to spend a morning traveling the back roads through some gorgeous summer scenery. Unfortunately, I forgot my camera. The Amish don’t like their picture to be taken anyway, which makes it a bit tricky to take pictures of their farms. Still, I could have gotten some great photos of the countryside. Oh well, maybe I’ll go for another drive this week and be sure to take the camera with me.

The family that now owns the dry goods store are actually distantly related to me. They are Brennemans and my second great-grandmother was Catherine Brenneman, the wife of Henry Ayle. We are all descended from Melchior Brenneman, a Swiss Mennonite who came to America in 1709 to escape religious persecution. I have a photograph of Catherine Brenneman Ayle (1819-1901). It is the oldest photograph on my picture pedigree. I’ve always liked her face. She looks kind.

Catherine Brenneman Ayle.

Now that the Shillig’s are home (well, Julie is – Kurt went west again already) our social life has blossomed once more. Last Sunday we had our first Sabbath Soiree in a long, long time. The Thayns were still here and we invited our friends Bob and Nancy Jones to join us. We had a lovely evening. Then on Tuesday we celebrated Julie’s birthday. They had a great Mexican fiesta prepared with chili rillenos, beans, Spanish rice, and guacamole. Miriam made a chocolate bundt cake. It was all so good. This evening we are having the Sabbath Soiree at our house. Julie and her friend Trina are coming over. We’re having all kinds of goodies. Miriam is making challa bread and chocolate peanut butter ice cream. Stacey is making pigs-in-a-blanket and broccoli salad. Julie is bringing her excellent mosquito salad. It’s such a beautiful summer Sabbath day, maybe we’ll move the Soiree out under the maples. I can’t wait.

The spread at last Sunday's Sabbath Soiree.

Last Sunday's Sabbath Soiree.

Julie's birthday feast.