Porch swinging

Porch swinging is one of the first things I learned to do on my own. I think I learned to do it before I knew how to tie my shoes - but I was a late bloomer at that skill anyway. My introduction to the porch swing came in Valdosta on Floyd Street, at the house where Momma grew up.

I spent part of my summers every year at that house, after a long, hot eight hour pilgrimage from Atlanta down two lane U.S. 41. The journey took us through many a middle and south Georgia towns, and past all the courthouse squares with their bronze or marble Confederate soldier sentinels - forever guarding over the Lost Cause, past dry dusty farm fields.

Then there were all those inevitable roadside boiled peanut stands.

Dad was always sure to stop at one of them. Why he wanted hot, boiled peanuts in the middle of a sultry summer drive we could never fathom, but there we were in the back seat, my sister, my brother and I, sweating and counting the seconds while Dad got out, and bought the spongy, soggy steaming peanuts. We had to wait a little extra for the delicacy because Dad was always sure to strike up a conversation with the vendor. Finally we would get back on the way south, and finally the long trip would end in front of Ma's House.

After the chore of unloading the luggage and Ma making her annual decision in which bedroom we could sleep in, the front or the back, the porch swing would get my personal workout.

Ma's swing was firmly attached to a beam which was firmly attached to the porch ceiling and after an initial test I went "full throttle."

I went back in time - to the glory days over the Pacific, which I had only read and heard about, and the swing became the cockpit of an F4-U Corsair, hunting down and shooting down those devilish Japanese Zeros with the big red circle on the wings and fuselage. But, just when I had one in my sites, and the swing was at maximum angle, elevation and velocity, which meant I was doing my best to get my tennis shoe toes to touch the ceiling, a voice would call from hundreds, no thousands of feet down back on the landing deck of the air craft carrier...

"Boy, you better stop that! "You're gonna fall out the back of that thing and bust your head, but that ain't the worst of it! "If you tear up my swing I'm a gonna bust your behind!"

Suddenly, the enemy plane vanished along with my dark, sea- blue fighter - and,.suddenly it was just a wooden porch swing, the light green paint flaking, the taught creaking chains going back to their normal strain, and I was back, not on a carrier deck, but the porch floor and Ma, arms folded, was scowling over her wire rim glasses.

"Boy, don't let me catch you doing that again. I'll show you what my swing is for."

Then, she went into the house and returned with her Bible and sat on the swing beside me, the sweetness in her voice had returned. "When I finally get the time after tending to everything else around here, I come out to this swing to catch a gentle, cool breeze at sunset, and to read and contemplate the Word," she said.

After that I never again went hunting for Japanese Zeros in Ma's swing, not after I learned that day that the swing was her quiet, holy place.

I'm still a porch swinger and I still recall the day I learned what a swing is really for. And, now, it is my quiet, holy place, where a gentle breeze can cool your face at sunset.

Jerry Gunn is a reporter for WDUN NEWS TALK 550, SPORTS RADIO AM 1240 THE TICKET, MAJIC 1029, and accessnorthga.com