Switch-swinger

When I was in the fifth grade, my friend Glenn Bromley and I once switched swings while swinging. Buoyant at this historic accomplishment, I quickly ran home and enthusiastically told my mom and siblings.

And no one believed me.

Here’s how it happened.

Glenn and I were, with one other boy, whose face I can conjure but whose name escapes me, the shortest kids in the 1967-68 fifth grade in Hart, Michigan’s, middle school. My family lived in Hart for four years, moving back to Montague in September 1968 for my sixth-grade year. I would remain a shrimp until well into high school, when genetics could not be denied and hormones finally caught up.

Until then, I was short, skinny, and very limber. I could do the splits, right down to the ground. I did kip-ups, without using my hands. Cartwheels were too easy, so I learned a full front flip, and mastered it. Shoot, I could even ride my blue Schwinn bicycle no-handed, so why would anyone be surprised at a swing-switching feat?

I was ten or eleven and, honestly, I cannot recall a single detail leading up to the big event. Did Glenn and I discuss this for weeks? Had we planned, plotted, and programmed the pace, every point, and each part, concerned about wind speed, what we ate for lunch, and that it might be a good idea to have a few witnesses? Surely not.

I do recall that it was a Friday. On this score, we were wise: cap off a tough week of school by triumphantly ushering in a weekend in which we would be extolled by our families and, perhaps, even make it onto the evening news, which, on Saturday and Sunday, is always lighter on heavy news so there is more room for fun things, such as kids’ Olympic-sized achievements, which ours surely would be.

School was let out for the weekend. As kids made it to the lines for the bus or down the sidewalk for home, Glenn and I made our way to the playground. As we were swinging, we started our usual horsing around. Eventually, we both found ourselves in a standing position, swinging away. The plan began to be hatched.

“If we could stay in unison, could we trade swings?” “How?” “With one hand, hold onto your swing and with the other grab mine. I’ll do the same. Then, keep one foot on your swing and I’ll go behind you and put my foot on yours. After that, we repeat the process with our other hand and foot, and, voila! We will have switched swings while swinging!”

We got swinging as high as we could, which, if you ever tried swinging while standing, was not all that high. We got into unison and began our moves. The Flying Wallendas had nothing on us. Each move was flawless. On the mark. Just as planned. Put the net away.

We did it! Glenn was now on my former swing and I was on his. We were jubilant, even if, due to the fact that we were not swinging very high in the first place, we were now barely swaying at all. No matter, we knew what we accomplished: we switched swings in “mid-air,” while we were swinging. So—how did I put it, earlier?—buoyant at this historic accomplishment, I quickly ran home and enthusiastically told my mom and siblings.

Now, I’ve done a lot of dumb things in my life—mostly of the I wasn’t using my head variety—and told a lot of lies when I was young—mostly of the I need to keep myself out of trouble variety—but nothing comes close to the amount of flak I have taken over the years about this.

No one believed me.

Why wouldn’t they believe me? Simply put: I was not a credible witness.

My siblings just plain made fun of me.  And kept making fun of me.  Over the years, whenever I would say something a bit over the top, one would remind me, “Like that time you and Glenn Bromley switched swings in mid-air?” and the rest of them would almost wet themselves with laughter.

Even my mom—my blessed mother!—who often called me her best Catholic (oops, that didn’t turn out well) didn’t side with me. I don’t recall Mom actually calling me a liar or belittling me. I can only picture the look on her face, which said, “Oh, Greg. Oh, middle child: are you so starved for attention? Some day you will grow up. You might even grow into those ears. Then, you won’t need to tell such outlandish stories.”

I don’t recall the date that Glenn and I pulled off this Guinness World Record Book-caliber effort, but it might as well have been December 7, because, for me, it was a date that lives in infamy.