by Leslie Pierce
As the fifth generation to be a part of the farm, this swing holds a very special place in my heart. Any time I think about going to the farm, I immediately think about this swing, and all of the memories that it brings up for me. This particular swing has been hanging from the same tree for as long as anyone can remember. I think it was hung soon after the current house was built on the property (back in 1937). In fact, it has been there so long that the bark on the tree is even beginning to grow around the chains!
I cannot recall the first time that I went out to the farm. My grandmother (we called her Mee Mom) started taking me there when I was too young to remember, so it has always been an innate part of my being. The house is exactly as it was back then, with only a few minor, aesthetic changes. The furniture is in the same places, the bedding is the same (washed, of course), even the pictures on the wall are the same!
One of my first memories was this old dishtowel that hung from a nail in the corner of the kitchen. Everyone used it for everything: to dry their hands, to dry the dishes, even as a potholder! I remember this towel because my grandmother once remarked to someone that "the towel had hung there for at least 60 years". At five years old, I couldn't comprehend that amount of time!!
Another memory I have was when I was about 8 or 9. We used to have our family reunions down in Jacksonville every year, and everyone stayed at or near the house. Naturally, I wanted to go out and play with my brother and all of my cousins (first, second, third... there were tons of them!) before we went over to the reunion hall. Unfortunately, my grandmother had already dressed me in my frilly dress and white sandals. At the time, my great-grandparents used the farm to raise cattle. As you can imagine, there was cow manure everywhere in the pasture and as an 8 year old, I didn't pay attention to where I was running. I stepped right in a big, steaming heap of it. If I did that now, my first thought would be, "Gross!!! It's all over my foot!" But then, my first thought was, "Mee Mom is going to kill me for getting my brand new, white sandals dirty!" Well, I was right. She was pretty mad. But she took a water hose to my feet, and got it all off. I went to the reunion with slightly dirty sandals. Thankfully she forgot all about it because there were just too many people for her to talk to. And she was a talker.
I could go on and on about my memories of the farm and my great-grandparents, or even memories of getting to the farm (i.e. car break downs, flat tires, etc.), but my favorite memories revolve around the swing. The thing is, I can't really give you a specific memory. It's more like a feeling - the warm and fuzzy kind. Around the early 60's, another swing was added to the yard. It hung from a metal frame and sat adjacent to the white one. The metal frame originally housed the swingset that my dad played on as a child, but Pappy turned it into a single swing. That swing is long gone, but the old, rusted frame still sits there. (They don't make swings like they used to!) There were also several of those metal chairs that didn't really have legs, but had this metal loopy thing that extended from the front of the chair on one side, wound down to the ground, and then back up the other side of the chair. They're so hard to describe, but anyone who was on a farm 20 or 30 years ago knows what I'm talking about. They didn't look stable (and many people fell out of them), but they allowed you to rock back and forth. Naturally, those chairs have rusted out as well.
We used to spend every evening out in the front yard. The seats in the tree swing were the first to go. Everyone wanted to sit there. But let me tell you, it didn't matter who was sitting in that swing... If Pappy (my great-grandfather) walked outside, someone got up and let him sit there. That was HIS swing. After all, he was the one who had worked so hard on this farm. He deserved it.
While sitting (or standing, for the unlucky, slow people) in the yard, the "old folks" used to tell stories about the old days, about their families and experiences growing up. Naturally, they would gossip about the other folk in town. They would tell all sorts of tall tales. Who knows which ones were real? We would wither away the afternoon daylight, until the mosquitoes finally ran us off. Of course, that just meant it was time for Momma England's cooking!! And boy could she cook!!!!!
I was very fortunate that I was able to spend time with my great-grandparents. A lot of people don't get that opportunity. And I didn't just meet them, I got to know them. I was 10 when Pappy died. Unfortunately, Momma England couldn't really take care of the place by herself. So my family moved her up to Fort Worth, and we didn't go out there much over the next 8 or 10 years. Eventually, my grandmother wanted to make it into the farm it had once been. She and Papa tried, but then she got sick and passed away when I was 21. Two years later, Momma England passed away and joined her family. The farm sat empty for a couple of years after that. But then, my dad decided the farm, or ranch as he calls it now, is his life's passion. He didn't want his family to lose or sell those memories. Too many family members have been through that place to just let it go. So, he and his wife are rebuilding and redeveloping the property. They are giving a whole new generation a chance to experience it.