Forever

in me.

Time leaves no fruit on the tree
But you're gonna live forever in me
I guarantee, it's just meant to be
- John Mayer

Backyard in England - I’d sit and watch the trains go by.

She lives with her grandparents in a modest 1960’s next door to our north facing neighbors where our backyards meet in the corner of four homes. It hasn’t been an easy life for a little girl living with elderly grands. Pre-pandemic I used to see her skipping by from the elementary school across the street, 12 steps ahead of her grandmother whose tired body was usually weighed down by a backpack, sweater in one hand, papers fanned in another, back drooped in her third act of life, as the whimsical shy girl rounded the corner home. “Hello,” I’d smile, as the years on her grandmother’s face nodded in return.

How many have prayed for the hardened grandfather, the choices their daughter made, leading to her little girl’s living situation?

The north neighbor has been texting for prayer all week.

It was a horrible, painful illness. He passed away mid-week with his sons by his side. His wife had been with him since she was 17 years old.

And the orange tree, where it’s roots meet our four corners, spreading its goodness from overflowing branches onto our grass, begins to shake with a familiar sound.

A best friend in an uncertain time. Again.

Afternoons, early evenings and most weekends, in as many hours as could be squeezed into the last five years, rocking back and forth, we have heard the persistent sound of a WD-40 quick fix.

But what we really hear, as we smile separately and together in the garden, is the familiar sound of weightless motion.

I can’t look at a swing again as an impermanent passage of time. For as the child sought solace in the potential of propelling into an unknown vastness, I too sought a familiar solace in the garden wandering in circles, tending to plants, and organizing my thoughts as I released the whys and hows from my heart to the immeasurable ever-changing sky. Immigrant child. Staring up at the great palms against the old block that separated us from those on every side. Never ending days talking to birds, dogs, stray cats, squirrels and any family that might come by mumbling six feet apart in driveways. I wondered if the neighbors knew I was listening for signs of life. If she knew I was listening to her unspoken words.

Like the child who wrapped her hands around chains, I wanted to reach through the walls, wrap my arms around another human, and feel the presence of neighborliness. I had long sensed the indifference in previous neighborhoods so this was nothing new, just a deeper spiral that only the sound of nature (or a rusty swing) could cure. She was there, I was there, we were there behind elusive fences. Walls that met one another in darkness as we craved light.

“The playground should not be put in a corner behind railings, but in a conspicuous and beautiful part of a park, free to all, where people can enjoy the play and charming scenery at the same time; where mothers can sit, while they are looking on and caring for their children.” - Charles Wicksteed, Inventor of the playground swing.

Like many before it, Wicksteed Park, in Kettering, England, which opened in 1921, included a large sand pit for open play. Charles Wicksteed also filled it with equipment that he designed and manufactured, like swings, chutes, see-saws and roundabouts.

In a book that was published in 1928, “A Plea for Children’s Recreation after School Hours and after School Age,” Wicksteed offered an auspicious summary of the impact of his park: “I have direct evidence from mothers how whining, pale-faced children, complaining of any food they get, have come back with healthy faces and rosy complexions, ready to eat the house out after a good play in the playground.”

Unfettered by rules, pumping above the ground of circumstance, the swing, a self-taught ride to “the moon, the stars, the sun and back to earth.” My grandchild answering, “do you know how much I love you?” A spatial awareness. A simple, yet powerful gift. Thank God for the swing where our hearts quietly met in the last five years.

Sadly, Charles Wicksteed, who inherently knew what children needed, took his life just before his 84th birthday in 1931. His legacy lives on, mostly unknown, in the breeze that gently blows over the face of a child on a swing. If only he could have felt the unquestionable impact in veiled gardens and parks around the world where time lives on forever in the exhilarating feeling of flight.

I will never forget the taped off parks and losses so absurdly unseen and dear to the souls of children and many of their parents and grandparents.

A part of the child will live forever in me.

On your phone, the video above might only look like a “play icon” > on a white background. It is supposed to display a picture. The computer will show it correctly.

While not the very first playground, Wicksteed Park in Kettering, UK, is widely considered the birthplace of modern play equipment and the first public park in the UK with a dedicated playground, including the world's first wooden slide (ouch) and swings.

Wicksteed Park is operated as a theme park, owned by the Wicksteed Charitable Trust originally created in 1916. While many new and more modern attractions have been added, the park includes a heritage playground area with replicas of the equipment created by Wicksteed.

The 100 year old Wicksteed Leisure Limited continues to be a top supplier of playground equipment in the UK.

Thank you Mr. Wicksteed for the millions upon millions of hours of play among the stars.

And a special thank you to

Kristin Swan

- my lovely friend, for reminding me of the old tire swing. We had one for our kids too and so many hours were spent swinging. I miss seeing it.

One of the cousins swinging late into the day.

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