When I was a very small child my Dad installed a swing in our basement. A couple of swing bolts and a sort of jury-rigged system of metal plates and such between the exposed joists. Somewhere between 35 and 40 years later, it still hangs.

And for that matter, it still swings.

People I have known my whole life will connect with me when I’m visiting my Mom and end up in the basement, marveling that it still hangs. And swing.

It’s a different swing now. When I started having kids we switched the old plastic white flatbed for a questionably safe toddler seat. Even after all these years without a breath of maintenance, I worry far less about the ceiling apparatus, and far more about the primary-colored plastic vessel my littlest sits in, screaming “Higher! Higher!”