Long Live The Rope Swing

I am from the hilltop called Gobblers Knob

Run by Lady Becky, and her man, Bob.

I am from the northern lands far away from the equator fires

Where the glaciers last crested, where mosquitoes are big as pliers.

I am from the playroom, the barn room, the lines for the bathroom.

I am from the puppet shows and horsey rides and suckers at the dump.

I am from the snowy forts that melt into rivers,

Rivers we raced upon, betting vigorously on our tawdry sticks.

I am from the Hinterlands, the Great Northwoods, Badgerland.

I am from the Old Northwest, the Vanguard State, birthplace of Chris Farley.

I am from the Land of the Lakers where we carry the banners of Blue and Gold.

I am from letter jackets and varsity sports and disqualification at State Track.

I am from Peachy, Lefty, Stubby and Patches. I am from Fuzzy, Wuzzy, Teddy and George; Question, Triggerdy, Shilo and Roy.

I think about you every day while climbing through the wicked city.

Whatever happened to the million tiny red toads we saw at the Kempin's one summer?

Where did the flowers by the road go?

What happened to the screwdriver we used to fiddle with that thingy under the hood of Dimples during those frigid evenings after practice in the dark of deep winter?

They are gone with the summer camps, the Nerd Herd and getting stuck in the apple tree.

I am from the trilliums in the forest, under the Birch, Oak and Pine trees.

I am from chopping wood and loading wood and unloading wood into the basement.

I am from stacking wood and covering wood and stoking the fire at 2am.

I am from the lakes and the rivers and the trees.

I am from the cabin and the haymow.

Life amongst the bales and the corn silk is no place for the soft.

Here, demands of stamina are outweighed only by the demands of patience.

I've slept on every inch of its grounds and some of its roofs.

Long live the rope swing, may it ever carry us upward.

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