Happy Birthday, Mom

Today would be my Mom's 93rd birthday.
That's definitely a livable age,
and I would have loved to have her around longer.
I would have loved to share
my grandmothering experiences with her.
She died in 1995 at the age of 79.
Sometime I'll write about the miracles
surrounding the last month of her life.

But for today, I'll share an essence of her,

which was written in the form of a poem by Tiffany.
I have this hanging by my front door.

Grandma’s Porch Swing

I still remember Grandma’s kind raspy voice which

urged me out to the big porch on rainy summer nights.

With a small hop I would slide onto the big white swing,

my legs dangling in the air with each melodic rock.

The squeak of the hanging chain sounded as Grandma’s

foot hit against the green, turf-like carpet.

rock, squeak, rock, squeak, rock. . . .

As a child that porch seemed like a grand stage

from which to watch the world pass by.

On the left side sat Grandpa’s big white chair which

curved perfectly to fit his masculine form, but devoured

my small limbs as I sank to the back.

In the middle the green turf terraced up the steps

welcoming all to come inside the warm home

which smelled of Grandma’s cake and Grandpa’s wood shop.

And on the right, hung the swing. . .

Grandma’s big white swing.

It invited all to

sit awhile,

talk long,

and think much.

Years have passed since Grandma and Grandpa left

this earth, but that big white swing still hangs,

now on my own porch.

It still makes that familiar melodic squeak when my

foot hits my smaller cement porch.

Grandma’s swing has become a transport for me,

and the porch a haven away from the world.

I sit hidden by the trees, sheltered by the cover,

and out of sight from the passers by.

It is there that the majestic mountains call me to the east,

and the brilliant sunset ushers me to the west.

I can spend hours on Grandma’s swing listening to the song of birds,

pondering the clouds in the sky,

and gazing up at the galaxies.

It is especially on the rainy nights that I am reminded of Grandma.

The porch swing is not only a memorial to her,

but a reminder of how to love.

Sometimes, if I am quiet, I can listen to the melodic squeak of the chain

and still hear Grandma’s kind raspy voice urging me to

sit awhile,

talk long,

think much,

and

love always.

Tiffany Ashton 12/98

Here's the porch swing today
on this cold and snowy
January day.
It looks kind of lonely,
but I'll make sure it gets
lots of company this summer.

And a lesson to be learned:
Take pictures of every day things.
When Tiffany wrote the poem
and I wanted to have it framed,
I went in search of pictures.
There were hardly any to be found.
Here was this swing,
which my Dad made,
and was such a part of our lives.
But because it was such an every day
part of our lives,
we didn't take many pictures of it.

I was so glad when
I finally found this one
which features Mom,
and a much younger me
and Tiffany.