Having a littlie in the family was a great excuse for me to buy a tyre swing to hang from a sturdy garden tree. Our family had one in our first house in Parkview, Johannesburg – it’s now etched in family lore how my then 7-year-old brother, playing Tarzan, tried to leap from a branch onto the swing and missed, breaking his arm in three places.
This swing – Jessie’s first – was oriented differently from the one I grew up with, horizontally rather than vertically, but it did just as fine a job. When the adults weren’t having a go, Jessie got full use of it almost from day 1. Here she is, at three months old, in a makeshift cradle made out of Balu’s basket, the net we usually use to keep flies off food, and a kikoi – the gentle rocking in the warm spring air was a perfect soporific.
And here she is almost three years later, on the same swing.
Various parts of the swing gave way over time, and I patched it once or twice, but finally it had to be retired. As Jessie was getting older, I bought her a hanging rope ladder to replace the swing, and my friend Troy helped me put it up. If you look closely at this photo, you will see what a fantastic fuckup a poorly planned DIY collaboration between two apparently intelligent people can produce.
(We untangled the rope ladder from the ladder eventually.)
And Jessie loves it.