I enjoy looking at historic homes on-line and recently realized that porch swings are much more common to the rural south–including Appalachia. It finally hit me that northern homes don’t have as many swings–or porches for that matter–because the season for sitting outside is so much shorter.

In the mountains of NC we’ve hit prime porch-sitting weather. Warm days, cool evenings, occasional rain pattering on the roof, and soft breezes. And while I really like our house, one of its shortcomings is a pitiful front porch. We sit on the steps sometimes (Thistle LOVES doing this first thing in the morning) but the porch is too narrow for a swing. My husband hung one for me along the creek out back, which is a GORGEOUS spot, but it’s still not a porch swing.

There’s just something about a porch with a swing and a couple of rocking chairs that causes family and friends to congregate. And talk lazily about nothing. And wave at cars driving by. And watch the weather change. And just be at ease.

I’ve been thinking about porch swings I’ve known. There was the one on the back porch of the house I grew up in. Mom would sit there and read to us in the summer. It felt special to be outside in my nightgown, fresh from a bath, tucked in beside Mom. At least once, the chains gave way, dumping us. Which is mostly funny when you’re six.

Then there was the swing at Grandma’s. It was tucked in behind a cedar at the corner of the porch–I can still smell that spice if I close my eyes. We would argue over who got to sit in the swing with Grandma and watch cars go by. She actually lived on the paved road and we might see a half dozen cars of an evening. Exciting!

Porch swing rules included:

• Not swinging too hard or too high.
• Not pushing your siblings in the swing (or out of it).
• Only one person controlled the motion by pushing off the floorboards with their foot.
• If you brought a quilt to the swing, you took it back in when you were done.
• In the winter, the swing would be taken down and stored or raised up too high for anyone to sit (Why?? I don’t know).
• Dad tested the chains/rope each spring to make sure the swing was safe.

One of these days we’re going to have a house with a wide front porch and a comfy swing. Until then, I’ll enjoy my memories and hope the ropes on the creekside swing we left out all winter haven’t rotted through . . .

Thistle and I have been walking through a neighbor’s pasture lately. There’s a critter trail we take and I can’t walk through the waist high grasses without thinking about my father telling us to stay out of the hayfield lest we mash down the grasses ahead of hay season.

When I was a kid, the first cutting typically came pretty close to the last day of school. For so many children, summer meant freedom–going to the pool, plenty of time to play, vacations. For my brothers and me it more often meant working in the hayfield–or the garden.

Until I got old enough to be more help than hindrance in the field, my job was to carry Mason jars of ice water out to the workers. Not a hard job, though fresh-cut stubble is mighty hard on bare feet.

When I got bigger and stronger, I stacked bales as they were tossed onto a wagon moving slowly through the fields. It’s important to alternate rows for a secure stack. Some days I got to drive the tractor which is almost fun until you get to a steep hill and have to stop and start without jerking bales (or people) off the wagon.

And there was always the need for extra hands to unload the wagon (we used a hay elevator to carry the bales to the barn loft) then to stack the hay inside. I can remember more than one rush to the barn as dark clouds swarmed the sky. Rain is NOT good for hay.

And then the best part–a long shower or a trip to the swimming hole to wash the chaff from places you wouldn’t think it could go. It’s almost worth getting that hot, sweaty, and dirty just to feel cool water sluice across your skin. Then a well-earned supper perfectly seasoned by the day’s labor. I don’t remember what we ate, but it was good.

Now don’t let me fool you. I worked, but not nearly so hard as my brothers and the other boys and men my dad hired to help. Sometimes it pays to be the girl.

And now, as an adult, when I drive by a field of fresh-mown hay, or see a farmer tedding in preparation for the rake, then the baler, I roll down the car window and breathe deeply. The smell reminds me of the satisfaction of a barn full of hay ready for winter. And it almost makes me wish I could spend a day sweating under the summer sun.

Almost.