Under Appreciated Hammocks

The sea air has changed from a breeze to a wind, the sun is shining brightly, the splendid, fuchsia, hollyhocks have almost finished their summer extravaganza AND I am in a colourful, striped canvas hammock on the good, old front porch.  I have my beloved computer in my lap. I couldn't  ask for more at this moment.

Hammocks are highly under rated.

I have been going through bushels of old photographs, very old photographs, sorting out so much past. This is a nasty task; what to keep, what to burn, where to find more appreciative homes for the photos. In one picture my paternal grandmother languishes in a hammock set up by the massive stone Presbyterian walls of her family's farmhouse in southwestern Ontario. Her five grown sisters gather around her in their long, starched, white summer dresses.

There is no question of burning this picture of my grandmother, Junie. I am given a glimpse of an unhighlighted time in a family's story. Her father died when her youngest brother was a baby. Her oldest brother, John, kept the farm going well enough that all of the sisters were able to eventually finish high school in various Girls Schools, as country one room schools only went so far. They went on to graduate from Teachers College. This was quite an accomplishment for a family of very limited means, at the beginning of the last century.

My grandmother knew more than a little about hard work, but there she is lolling in a hammock. This is an addendum to "the idle hands are the playthings of the devil" theology that seemed to permeate family ethos. Perhaps this was a Sunday when hands had a day of rest.

I kept the picture of my grandmother, Ethel, smiling as she rests in a hammock at the cottage on Lake Simcoe. This picture would have been taken a few years later, probably the summer of 1909, as my mother in another picture, taken at the same time, in the same hammock is about two years old. This grandma was familiar with hammocks every summer day. Leisure was part of her routine

At our home in Markham, a canvas, green striped hammock stretched out between the apple tree and the pear tree. My cousins and I didn't do much lolling. The hammock was an active recreation. We would take turns winding up the hammock as far as it could wind. Cocoon style a cousin was inside. When let go, the hammock spun its contents round and round until it became untwisted giving the cocoon quite a thrill, leaving the cousin slightly dizzy.

One of the great tragedies of my young life happened as I actively participated in hammock fun. My cousin Myra was wrapped up as tight as could be. I let go. She spun happily until she spun out onto the ground. Unfortunately she landed on tree roots and broke her collarbone. Unfortunately for me, I was held somehow responsible. My mother felt compelled to present her with a gift each day as she lay resplendent, recuperating outside in a lawn chair. The hammock was taken down.To be honest, I felt sorry for my little self with such wounded, tender feelings.

Last summer my younger daughter with her watermelon  belly tried to rest in the very same hammock in which I now lie. Her young nieces constantly urged her on to more rambunctious endeavours.

This summer her baby boy wasn't really in to gentle swinging. He had his own swing. The little girls took over the hammock with a passion. Boy can that hammock swing. We had to go into town to buy an egg timer to accurately define each child's hammock time. I dreaded the accident in waiting, but it never came. A box and a half of bandaids were used up during their visit but none of them were hammock related.

My daughters and I had odd moments in the hammock, usually as the sun was setting.

My oldest cousin and I gave a huge handmade hammock with all the accessories to my daughter and her husband as a wedding gift. It would be fun to know what memories will swing into family lore from that hammock.

Hammocks are an essential part of summer.