Magic Swing , p.1

 It is often the case that only in retrospective reflection is the magic of a particular experience apparent.

So, with the porch swing.

To casual inspection it seemed an ordinary porch swing. I had no reason to suspect its supernatural existence as I succumbed to its gentle oscillations while I sipped my morning coffee. This was to be my daily routine, in all weather, for the three years I enjoyed my “White Rock Ranch.”

My beloved Ruth, who spent a lot of time there, appended the “White Rock” after we splashed decorative white gravel across several of the flower beds she helped me arrange.

“Ranch” in tribute to the rural setting of my estate – all of its 1.1 acres, within which my small one room house was sited.

I heard coyotes every night. I loved their serenade. I was visited by bobcats. I never saw one, but I often saw their tracks and sign, all around the property. Wetbacks in their cross-country traverse of the South Texas wilderness in search of a better life walked the fenceline directly in front of me. They didn’t bother me, and I watched silently as they passed.

In my memory the White Rock Ranch was, in toto, a lovely experience, which I now regret having abandoned. Experiences in that extraordinary, exceptional porch swing ranged from the mundane to the magical.

Dulcinea. 

 She was undocumented. She made no pretense to rights of citizenship. But she adopted me, so I fed her, and talked to her. I asked her name, and she willingly informed me. Her fur was soft and fuzzy, uniformly gray in color, without the stripes of a common tabby. She assumed an air of royalty.

On a warm summer evening I sat in the swing, nursing a bourbon and coke. Dulcinea appeared in the dusk, and walked in the yard alongside the porch in the direction of the driveway. She stopped and assumed the pose of a bird dog pointing a covey of quail. I spoke to her. She ignored me, remaining frozen on point. Strange. Usually when I spoke her name she would turn to smile at me and vocalize an acknowledgement. I took my flashlight from my belt and illuminated her – and the object of her attention. A rattlesnake, about eighteen inches long, coiled, head erect and looking directly into the cat’s hypnotic gaze.

I trust that you can accept that I was not unreasonable in wearing my revolver when outside my dwelling. The ambience of my location spoke clearly of the wisdom of preparedness.

In South Texas I had experience with numerous rattlesnakes, so I carried in my pocket some shot shells. Which by their design and function turn my revolver into a small shotgun. Perfect for small snakes. I asked Dulcinea if she would please move away from the snake so that I could shoot it without hitting her. When she moved away I shot the snake.

I immediately resolved to cease walking barefoot in the luxurious Bermuda grass at night.

It is my intention that this will be the first in a series of “Magic Swing” posts.