The Tire Swing

The Tire Swing

By Rebecca Farrah (7:40 MWF)

According to Freud, people develop their personalities and habits in their early childhood. The things that happen to you during your developmental stages are the basis for all of your quirks, vices, preferences, and fears. I guess I agree with him, but with a twist. I think that it is more the things that happen because of early experiences, not the early just experience itself, that effect who a person becomes. I am no Freud, but I can name an event in my early life whose consequences caused my stable existence to whirl into a twister of fate that made me who I am today…

We were late for school that morning. In a house with four kids, the oldest not yet seven, mornings are chaos. We could not find every left shoe and our lunches had gone unmade the night before. We found the shoes in my mischievous younger brother’s room, who was mad because he was not yet old enough to enter school and wanted everyone to stay home with him instead of leaving him with the aged babysitter. We tied our laces, threw a PB and J in a plastic Wal-mart sack, and ran out the door. I never thought that the morning of average anarchy would be all that I dreamt of for the next six months.

I always walked to school with my twin brother and older sister (my younger brother staying behind), but on that Wednesday we got a ride from my father on his way to work so that we could make up some lost time. We weren’t that late, but we jumped out of the car, backpacks flying, the second that we pulled up in front of the main office. We got our passes, and went our separate ways. The school was separated so that each grade was in its own hall, but there were so many kindergarten students that one hall could not hold all of them. The school had to create another class, which they put near the third grade classrooms. I felt special to be in that class, near the older students. That day it only meant that I had the furthest to go to get to my destination.

I walked down the empty hallway, with my shoes making en eerie squeaking noise that echoed up the vacant corridor and back into my ears, bringing a chill up my spine with every step. As I trudged along I couldn’t help but snicker to myself that my younger brother deserved to be home with that crazy old woman. He had been the whole reason that we were late. I contemplated this between the high pitched squeaks of my shoes, until I was just outside my classroom.

Here I hesitated. I loved school. I wanted nothing more than to be learning in my seat at that moment, but I was on the outside of the door looking in. My teacher, Mrs. Kelley, was standing at the front of the class reading a story. She was a slender young woman with long blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, giving her an air of professionalism that overshadowed her bright colored, flowered skirt and rosy pink cheeks. I knew that the second I turned he handle forty eyes would zero in on my location and not let go until I was safely in my seat. I did it, too, when it wasn’t me who had been running late, but I still hated being the center of attention. I hated being the cause of the disruption that sent all of the young minds in the room soaring away from the melodic voice of Mrs. Kelley and into my personal life. I took a long, deep breath and turned the icy steel handle.

My day went on smoothly after that initial stress. My best friend Ashley was up for show and tell, and she brought her pet lizard Sammy. Ashley was a short red-head, with arms and face covered in freckles, and a toothy grin that she loved to show any person who would just look. That grin was a mile wide as she displayed Sammy to the astounded class. The lizard was two feet long from head to foot and he looked so heavy that it was amazing to see that petite child carry him with little noticeable effort. His beady eyes and greenish-brown scales made him look severely unnatural in the minds of my classmates, who had rarely seen any animal that wasn’t known for its litter box or incessant barking.

I was the talk of the class when I got up to pet him after Ashley’s presentation was over. Sammy and I were good friends. I had been to Ashley’s house often, so I was used to his rough features. I could tell from the faces of awe beaming up at me from tiny desks that everyone else would rather eat a bug that touch the small “dragon”. As I returned to my seat, I received a few horrified glances, and saw a hint of curiosity for the feel of that creature in the eyes of the other children in my row. I knew that they truly wanted to touch him, but no one else got up. Fear had beaten childhood curiosity, at least for the moment. There was a moment of gripping silence, ended only when the lunch bell screamed overhead.

Our timid class whispered monosyllabic goodbyes to Sammy as they all rushed out the door to the cafeteria. I stayed behind to help Ashley get Sammy back in his cage and out to her fathers Chevy. She was only allowed to bring a pet to school with the stipulation that a parent be present. I didn’t mind helping her. We worked together until our legs started to burn and our arms felt like jelly (which took a total of about two minutes). Ashley’s dad finally relieved us of our burden. With his Herculean strength he held the cage over our heads and into his huge truck. He smiled with that Crest-white, star-twinkling smile of his as he embraced Ashley in a giant bear hug (he didn’t want to embarrass her by demanding a kiss in public). He tossed us each one of the strawberry swirl hard candies that he kept in his shirt breast pocket, gave me a strong nod of goodbye, and sent us skipping off to lunch.

We could hear the muffled roar of the lunchroom through the thick outside door. As we opened it, we were bombarded with the powerful aromatic mixture of pizza, hamburgers, Lunchables, and chocolate milk. The decadent fragrance sent our palates dancing as we searched around the long tables for two empty seats. There was only room for us in the far east corner of the packed room. These seats were between two older boys who were both known for their spit wads, love for pulling hair, and the profound stench that they emitted which only daily bean consumption can cause. With an understanding glance we paid for our quarter milk cartons and walked outside to eat our sack lunches under a tree.

The grass was moist as we plopped down under our favorite thinking tree. This massive giant was too large for any Kindergartener to climb, so it was safe for us to sit and giggle under it without the constant threat of some boy falling into your lap after missing a step, or worse, feeling something wet and hard hit your head (only to look up and see your brother grinning down at you- straw and paper in hand). Ashley was over-excited after her presentation, so she talked through her bologna, Pringles, and tapioca pudding. I didn’t mind. I have always been a good listener. It made me happy to lean against the grainy bark of the thinking tree, slowly chewing and letting her chatter flow through my mind. It seemed like a really lazy day.

We sat there together as the rest of the children began to migrate onto the playground behind us and the field in front. This was our thinking tree because it was the perfect vantage point to see what is going on during recess. Ashley and I would come here to spy out what game appealed to our curiosity on any given day. We were the only girls that would join the boys on the field. The other girls always stayed on the playground to jump off the swings or play with their Barbies. We were outsiders to them. The boys sometimes played rough, pushing hard when playing tag, or throwing a ball too fast. They hated that we were allowed to play with them. Ashley and I were tomboys who didn’t fit in, but we had each other.

The tire swing was open that day. It was normally the most sought-after piece on the playground. Boys and Girls alike could not resist its charm, rushing out of the lunchroom for the glory of a spinning ride. It had been a wet week. The tire swing was a large, black tire held up on a stand by four shiny silver chains. It hung over a dip of hard earth that had been patted down by thousands of running feet. That day this dip was nothing more than a pool of dark gray water that even the dirtiest boy dared not jump in. Ashley and I were daring. We would get wet, but we would have fun doing it. We wanted to have our chance on the glorified tire swing. It was our day.

Ashley wanted to push. She didn’t want to get in trouble by getting her new yellow dress dirty with that water. I was bold. I climbed onto the swing, laid down with my butt in the tire hole and my head and legs dangling off of opposites sides of the tire. With my hands gripping the cold, slimy chains, I got my bearings and screamed “Ready!”

My world began to blur. Colors mixed into a gray mesh zoomed by my head. Laughter and shouts previously pinpointed to the field or the playground became one constant stream of unrecognizable noise. Color. Sound. Wet Chains. Gray noise. Nausea. “Stop.” I couldn’t hold it in any more. Ashley grabbled the nearest chain, jerking me harshly back to reality. I couldn’t let go of the chains until my world regained some structure. My fingers, white with stress, gripped tight until I was sure that I was back on Earth. I finally let go and jumped off of the swing. I took one step and found myself on my back in the sand. Ashley began to run in circles around me, laughing and chanting, “Stand up, Stand up! My turn, My turn!” I guess my reaction to the swing drove the water threat out of her mind completely.

I was on my back when I saw the smoke. The gray noise of before became the sounds of whispered fear. “What is that?” “Where is it coming from?” “Its so close!” “Where is that siren coming from?” Ashley and I joined our classmates where they were huddled together in fear by the thinking tree, the tire swing an allure of the past. Speculations were coming from everyone. “Is that my house?” It was said many times. We watched that black cloud pierce the beautiful blue sky. The abyss of the blood-red core grew until all color was engulfed. A small white rain cloud, the only one in the sky, was overtaken by the unnatural threat, and was devoured.

The recess bell screamed us back from our fear, but mine could not quite be sated. As we walked back in, Mrs. Kelley pulled me aside. I wasn’t truly scared until I saw her eyes. Those pure blue diamonds said everything in one glance. My own eyes became as hot as the fires of Hell as I strained to stop the tears long enough to hear what she was forcing herself to say. “Becky,” she began in the softest, most gentle voice that I have ever heard, “ you have to go to the principles office to meet Ricky and Ashley (my twin brother and older sister). Your grandmother will be here shortly to pick you up and take you to the police station. There has been an accident at your house.”

I wanted to run. Run down the block and hide in my comfortable room, my sanctuary from the sun. I couldn’t even move. The Niagara Falls were bursting forth from my eyes, and I couldn’t move. I was afraid. Mrs. Kelley nudged me forward and took me through the dreary hall to the front office. The eerie footsteps were still as present as ever, louder this time because I wasn’t alone, but it didn’t bother me. There were bigger things now. My mind was spinning. I was still on the tire swing. I was staring up at the smoke. I was looking into Mrs. Kelley’s eyes. I wanted Ashley to jerk the chain so that I could get out of this stupor. She couldn’t.

The official cause of the fire was a spark from a broken television in my bedroom. My younger brother swore that he was jumping on my bed, when he knocked the television off of its stand and onto the floor. At least, that is the story that my parents insist on. The babysitter, a chain-smoker, was asleep on the couch until the fire alarm startled her awake. She then had the intuition to call her daughter instead of the fire department. (She was a smart one.) The house was completely destroyed.

It took a long time for my family to get past the devastation of our house fire. We were forced to leave Texas, to move in with my father’s parents in Arizona. My younger brother had to go through psychological evaluations to make sure that he could get past the “accident.” He was never the same, and was never truly trusted by the rest of us.

I used to look back and try to think of what my life would have been like if we never moved. If I had stayed in my house, with my friends. If my parents weren’t forced into a situation of poverty, would they still be married? If I had gone to a Texas high school, would I have been the brainiac/choir/drama kid that I had thrived as here, or a socialite/football game going cheerleader? Would I be me? No!
I may not have had the “amazing” Texas high school experience that my parents had (which involves football games and cow tipping), but I think that I still had a great time. I was happy at a school that never even got to the football playoffs and always lost the homecoming game. I have never been much of a sport watcher anyway. I was exceedingly happy to be a choir officer, who helped lead her choir to a California festival. I was a Thespian, an actress and stage singer, who earned enough points to get the accredited title. I was on the Varsity Bowling team (a thing they wouldn’t even think of in a Texas school). I thrived in a school, in a state I never thought I would stay in. I made the best friends that I could ever hope for; friends who truly love me and care about everything I do. I don’t know what would have happened without the fire, but the “What if‘s?” could never be as good as what fate helped me achieve.
Freud, you were brilliant, but in my mind you didn’t go far enough. It was the things that happened as unforeseeable consequences of the fire that made me the person that I am. Since that first move, many bad things have happened to my family and me. We have moved countless times, faced family health problems, deceased family pets, a catastrophic divorce, and many other things, but no matter what happens, life goes on. It may be cliché to say “I will survive,” but it is true. There are many days when life is Hell, but, if you, like me, have lived through those days, you are stronger for it. If I have learned anything, it is that location and belongings may change, but can go on, even in the worst circumstances. Eventually, things seem better as long as you have family behind you at every turn.
I went back last year and sat on that old, creaking tire swing. It was a lot smaller and shorter than I remember, and its dark black tread was now a colorful ode to the local graffiti artists, but it was still the same. As I say there, I realized that I wouldn’t be the same strong, friendly, annoying person if I had grown up there. Like the tire swing had done, that fire sent my life spinning around to directions that I could not have guessed, and some that I never wanted, but in the end I like the way that my life looks after I hit the sand.