Just a-Swingin'
I was twelve, the first time I went to the ranch, on the Pine Ridge in northwestern Nebraska, with my family. But I heard about the swing several years before. Dad first hunted at his uncle's ranch with his Dad and brothers as a young teen, and continued after he and Mom were married. Mom and Dad went with their parents and siblings, almost every fall, to hunt deer and turkey. I was pretty young when they came home and told the story of how Dad and (I think) Uncle Lee hung a swing high up in an old Cottonwood tree, so they could swing out over the Wounded Knee Creek. When everyone gathered at the ranch for a week of maintenance and repair, and the kids were finally allowed to come along, we could hardly wait to try out the swing. Oh, we hiked, and fished, and roasted marshmallows over the fire, and rode horses by the hour. But the swing was something special. There is nothing like flying high, over the water below, on a warm summer day. I have seen pictures of my pare...