There was a steel and fabric
glider on the
back porch of my Great Aunt's house. It sat on the shaded side of the big farm house and housed kids from
dawn to dusk in the summer, in between
Lemonade, Ice Cream and
Ghosts in the graveyard. There were a few hours after dinner when the
grown-ups would steal it and we would have to sit on the wood floor of the porch or jostle for spaces in laps. We would try to
listen in on conversations we didn't understand while complaining of the smell of cigarettes, cheap cigars and the odor of
gin in tall, sweaty glasses sitting on end tables.
The glider was sturdy, and could hold three adults or six kids. It squeaked constantly, but when the occupants pulled their feet off the floor it moved in rhythm and had a sweet melody.
EEE~e. EEE~e. EEE~e.
Whenever I see the first fireflies of the summer, or hear the sounds of children chasing one another in the dark, fearless, I imagine I can still hear the glider.
It's a reassuring sound.