When I was a little kid, I used to play on my swingset in the backyard all the time. The swing was the thing. A lot happened on my swingset. Some award-winning lyrics were created: “I’m swinging! Swinging! While I’m singing! I’m swinging!” Friendships were made and broken when one child was able to swing higher than another child (these competitions were serious business). We used to hold prisoners there during a friendly neighborhood game of “War”. The usual.
But, one day the swingset was rather unkind. Unbeknownst to me, it housed a bee’s nest, nestled right in the little crick between the chains of the swing and the metal bar at the top of the set. So that when I began to swing, and oh did I swing!, I disrupted that little bee’s nest. Needless to say, the bees were not impressed.
I ran screaming through the yard so loud that our neighbor almost called the police because she thought someone was being murdered. When my mother recalls the story, she likes to bring that up. What a disruptive child I was!
Anyway, the swarm of bees followed me as I ran down our street (still screaming) and I escaped the incident with about 20 bee stings. One of them was just below my eyelid and my eye blew up like a tennis ball.
And yet…I still like swings. More than the average person, I would say. I write scenes in my novels that involve swings. If I see a swing, I will cut in front of a child in line to use it. I really like them.
Bees, on the other hand? Not so much.