No other swing was as comfy as Aunt Stelle’s: a long, dark green wicker one hung from a porch ceiling 12 feet high. How I loved swinging on it during daytime under the shade of oak trees, or sleeping on it at night before she called me in so I wouldn’t get eaten alive by summertime insects.

Though only 13 at the time, I remember the curves of that old porch swing; no mattress of modern day ever fit so snugly or caressed so smoothly.

And, no matter how hot the summer days, the gentle breeze generated from the swing alone cooled more quickly – and more satisfactorily – than any oscillating fan.

In Oscar Wilde’s “The Ballad of Reading Gaol,” Stanza 3 reads: “When a voice behind me whispered low, That fellow’s got to swing.”

So do I.

In the rope hammock out back, lying or watching the sun and clouds – and the dove and the chipmunk – play peekaboo; or in the front yard glider or in the playground on kids’ swings suspended from posts between the jungle gym and slide, I find a delightful adventure never outgrown: swinging, swinging, swinging.

It started with a backyard swing so high between trees it could have catapulted me to China if my sisters had had their way.

In addition, my grandmother had a porch swing on which many days seemingly were passed. Actually, we never spent long stretches of time there but only used the swing as a recess period complete with iced tea or lemonade, or regrouping.

Yet I recall spending a lot of time in that swing, gently rocking or fiercely digging in our heels to force the swing’s chains to their limit, higher and higher until we could swing no more. Then, we bolted to a halt as in a carnival ride and hopped out to explore other territories and activities.

The swing was there if our fickle interests decided to return to it, which they did … during every day and evening: swing a little; swing a little later; swing some more later on; swing tomorrow.

We watched neighbors wave and pass by from those swings. We caught lightning bugs from those swings. We made up songs, we told stories. We watched thunderstorms. We counted stars.

We were joined by other family members who’d appear in those swings as naturally as seat cushions; and we’d make room, often jumping like frogs off a pond log, to let someone take our place.

It’s no different now. I’m as drawn to swings as a crow is to cherries on the tree.

A blue swing in a barn for a baby boy; a swing on a stand; a swing between tree limbs; a swing on a porch; a swing made of vines over the creek-bank. I love to swing, and I love to watch others swing. Nothing’s truly changed since I was 13, or before that, or long after that.

Sure, there are other pleasures: sitting, lying, rocking, bouncing, rolling, jumping, climbing, and hopping.

But I’m a swinger.