The Rope Swing

by David J. Haberman

Cady turned away from the boarded-up homestead at the far end of the property and faced the small wooden granary. She glanced at the misaligned square caps resting on the roof, hammered tins settled too far from their only task of keeping rain from the loading chutes. A wooden ladder falling parallel to the fading tilt of the sliding front door, nearly made it from eave to earth but for the missing two bottom rungs. Twenty feet to one side a skeleton of wire rose from a circular slab of crumbling concrete, the wind whistling its ribcage. Jay defined this extinct breed of architecture as a corncrib. Only a few remained near Bushel. The rest had been snapped up over decades, migrating to dairy country to be filled with field corn. The free flow of air between ears keeps the kernels dry and free of rot, fit for shelling all winter for use as a feed additive. She noticed a scattering of naked cobs peppering the grass—escapees from use as field mulch, fuel, or employed to a rougher task. She remembered the rise in Jay’s eyebrow as he gestured toward the dilapidated outhouse.

She moved on, examining a curve of branches sheltering the road, a canopy slung low and heavy. This drooping arch nearly completed a circuit of green, a mere gap separating hanging leaf from upthrust shoot. Wandering the tall grass she stopped at the high bank of Boar Creek. Jay indicated the level of erosion in a spring overflowing its banks all the way to a high stain on a distant porch. The river marked its territory, wetting all the way up to the third step. Record melt would leave Boar Creek higher than average halfway through July, after which time it would return to a brown trickle and end the rope swinging season. No fun in dropping to a gooey mess populated by salamanders. Cady peered over the bank. Jay’s description as “relatively fresh” was far short of her experience with sky-blue Minnesota waters. You’ll be okay here for a while, he said. This spot is perfect for a break, as far from the hustle and bustle as you can get. Nothing bites very hard if allowed enough space. You can forge a new vision. Move out of your parent’s basement. Sign a new lease on life.

She returned along a path of tree and bush in every stage of blossom. Jay rattled the roll: six varieties of apple, two apricot, two pear, unruly shirttails of raspberry and strawberry. Fountains of rhubarb splashed between uneven stands of plum and chokecherry. Climbing a broken picket arch was a stand of cold-weather grapes, suited more for jelly than wine. He explained how an anonymous handful of squash seeds tossed along the tree line half a decade back had been returning for service every year since, winding vines through the stiff steel of abandoned equipment nestled in the dry grass, and sending exploratory tendrils into nearby row crops. Jay reminisced on his nick-of-time removals of ripe orbs during harvest to prevent squashing by lumbering implement tires. He indicated sites of the previous year’s wild asparagus, clusters of dry, spindly stalks dotting the farmstead.

Cady brushed back the tall grass beside a spray, exposing the emergence of three white shoots. Jay explained the township honor system--don’t be greedy, pick what you can use in a day, maybe two, leave the rest.

With the outdoor studio examined, Cady sat on the tailgate of the pickup and loaded a 36-exposure roll of 35 mm 100 speed color film, which a mindful person could push to 38 or 39 shots, and attached a 50 mm lens. She loaded a second camera with a roll of black and white. She focused on the kids, her charges for the next two weeks, the kind of temporary job that carried few headaches. The three adolescents were socializing in a semi-circle on the grass, picking dandelions, loosely minding a younger trio whirling nearby in game mode, moving in staggers and fits of running, skipping and tilting at butterflies. Pauline, falling between age groups, sat alone, her legs dangling from a rock on the riverbank. Cady called out for everyone to be careful. Pauline nodded. The adolescents acknowledged her voice. The butterfly chasing dervishes were beyond the reach of sound.

She retraced her steps, re-analyzing a gnarl of branches within a frame of foliage. She examined curls of paint twisting back from the house’s dry siding. She squinted the sky into rectangles, embossing clouds within an amazing blue. Closing one eye, then both, she steeped in a moment of sunlight and soft breezes. A crouch in the tall grass repositioned the house beneath a single cloud hovering like a puff of smoke over the stone chimney. Back at the road, she imagined drivers racing the gravel path to a release over the edge of the horizon. Returning to the winding cut of the creek, she glanced at the exposed roots in the far bank. Tilting her head back, she opened to the overwhelming measure of sky and slowed her breath to a meditation, a prayer.

A burst of laughter jerked her back to reality. The teens had changed into cutoffs and were moving from pickup to creek. “Are you going to swim? I will if you will,” Pauline called out, approaching with hands clasped in earnest prayer. “The rope swing is really fun. I promise.”

“How deep is the water?”

“Jordy said good enough for jumping until July.”

Cady placed a hand on her chin. “Okay. I’ll wade in, then decide. It’s muddier than I like.” Pauline clapped her hands and immediately began chatting like a lifelong girlfriend about how her old swimsuit had shrunk over winter. Mom and I scoured the mail-order catalogs only to discover the selection in town was way better. The perfect suit jumped right off the rack. That never happens! Cady enjoyed the exuberance. A mere agreement to wade in water had transformed the activity into a social event. Pauline’s shyness evaporated as long-bottled emotions bubbled up to escape.

Pauline changed first with Cady watching for passing vehicles. During her change she felt strangely exposed under the sky’s enormous blue eye. Pauline instructed on the best way down to the water. Twisted roots were excellent handholds. Cady placed the camera bag in the shade under a towel before dipping a toe. Up close the water was clearer, though she lost sight of her toes at knee-deep. By then, Pauline was in the middle of the stream, bobbing her shoulders under. “I’m light as air, walking on the surface of a watery moon. My dad has a big picture book full of astronauts. I like how their space suits make them look like deepsea divers.”

“That’s an interesting observation,” Cady said, glancing several yards over where Cory, Minnie and Max were constructing an empire of rivulets and roads along the silty shore. Cady moved deeper, submerging until context shifted to a universe of water. She located the two boys, Jordy and Jones, whose heads were bobbing like planets utilizing gravity to redirect flirty comet tails of water at Caprice, the girl of the group. The boys quickly shifted to attentionseeking displays of physical prowess. Multiple attempts at dunking each other ended when Caprice rushed forward, vaulted onto their shoulders and submerged all. The trio erupted a few seconds later in sputters and snorts, shaking off water like dogs. “Try the rope swing,” they shouted. “It’s really fun!”

Pauline grabbed Cady’s arm. “I will if you will.”

She smiled at the sea monkey clinging to her arm pulling her against the current and up the worn path to the swinging tree. Cady called out to Cory, Minnie and Max, “Stay put while we’re using the rope swing.” Three small heads turned up, their puzzled eyes flashing “Why would we divert our attention from the most amazing activity ever!”

Caprice volunteered for the first rope sortie, taking three full steps back before advancing in a strong forward swing and release to a simple, plugged-nose splash. Jones followed. With the larger audience he pumped inertia into the rope with several back-andforths before releasing into a pin-wheeling arm and leg plunge. Jordy followed, cannonballing in a glorious depth-charge geyser. The treading trio was soon chanting, Cady! Cady! She tugged the rope and ran fingers down the series of knots, the lowest was doubled and large enough for the curl of two feet. She reached up unable to touch the topknot without climbing.

“That’s for experts only,” Pauline instructed.

“More like for crazy people,” Cady said, sparking another volley of invitations from the treaders. “Can you show me how to do this the best way?”

“Sure!” Pauline beamed. “Since this is your first time, you should rest on the second knot and put your feet on the bottom one.” Pauline pulled the rope back to a bald patch of earth. “Start from here.”

Cady sat on the second knot and rested her feet on the first. When Pauline let go, Cady swung out over the water once and returned to where Pauline could give her a giant shove in the back. At the farthest extension with weightlessness setting in she let go. An instant after crashing through the surface she was at the silty bottom. Once the slight current became noticeable, she kicked up and sputtered life back into her lungs. She waved to Pauline. “You’re right. It was fun. Your turn.”

Pauline retreated four short steps and launched with a shrill scream that followed her under. A moment later she was bobbing nearby with an ear to ear smile. “Thanks for swimming with us.”

“Thanks for inviting me to the party!” Cady said, returning to the bank for a second jump. This time she remained submerged until her lungs were ready to burst. She surfaced to a vision of acrobats twirling across the sky. Cady drifted to the far bank and sank into the background, staring at the swinging tree until its upper branches became roots embedded deep in the belly of the sky.

Content to watch, she lifted the camera and peered through the eyepiece, offsetting cloud from creek while capturing errant giggles in mid-flight. She emerged from the muck onto a flat stone to steady the frame. From there she climbed atop a tree stump for a series of shots to later stitch into a panoramic scene. One bookend would be the construction trio raising Sandtown from the silt, the other, a universe away, the swinging, glee-club quartet. The aperture found favor in the latter group, snapping to the beat of the mid-air frolics in a four-body crescendo, fixing measures in clicks and splashes, testing the limits of rope and branch as time scrolled until innocence filled every frame. l

DAVID J. HABERMAN was born in Breckenridge, MN a stone’s throw north of the confluence of the Bois de Sioux and Ottertail rivers, the source of the Red. Growing up twenty miles west on a family farm near Barney, North Dakota, he followed the Red River of the North to the University of North Dakota. He has worked somewhere in the valley ever since, currently at the UND Law Library in Grand Forks, where he lives with his wife Cathy.