I remember grandpa
pushing me on that swing
with permanently bowed fingers, once mangled by a corn-picker.
Years later I watched him climb up a loader and carefully balance on the bucket
just to hang a new swing for me.
At the height of his climb it sunk in;
what a stupid request from an almost-grown girl!
I held my breath.
And watched a man, in his sixties, successfully scale that machine to tie a swing to a 100-year-old oak tree.
