My wife and I were about two-thirds of the way through a two-week road trip, feeling generally bored with the splendor of the American countryside as displayed by the Interstate highway system. (OK, maybe "splendor" is the wrong word, but at least we were never more than four exits away from a Denny's. So that's something.) Anyway, there we were, tired of driving, tired of rest areas, and just wanting to do something else for a change. I don't remember who suggested it, but we decided to take the next exit, which was yet another totally nondescript freeway exit with no visible businesses or other signs of intelligent life.
It wasn't at all clear to me what road we were on, and my wife pulled the map out of the glove compartment. However, despite her best efforts, about all we could tell was that the road definitely did NOT lead to Fresno. So far, so good. The road wound along beside a muddy stream, past stands of trees, but no houses, businesses, or any signs at all. We drove on, I don't remember how long, but at some point we finally saw a sign, a small brown highway sign: "Swing: 12 miles". Didn't think too much about it, but there were more small brown signs. "Swing: 10 miles", "Swing: 8 miles", "Swing: Left, 6 miles", "Swing, Left, 2 miles", "Swing, 1/4 mile".
With that kind of product placement, we had no choice: we turned left onto the dirt road with the sign that said "<--- Swing".
About 300 yards up the dirt road, in the middle of a small woods, was a meadow. And in the middle of the meadow was a tree. And on the limb of the tree hung a swing. And on the seat of the swing was a... something.
There was a deserted gravel parking lot, so we parked the car and got out. We walked over to the swing, to see what the big deal was, what made it the most significant attraction for the past 12 miles at least.
There was no plaque describing the history of the swing, no interpretive center for imparting the lessons learned in the building of the swing, no docent to explain the discovery and restoration of the swing. What there was, was the swing itself, the seat a simple plank of wood, wide enough for a grown-up to sit on comfortably, suspended from two long manila ropes. The swing was entirely unremarkable, except that it had a cock sticking up from the seat.
"That's... a bit odd," my wife observed. "Maybe it's art. You know, like putting a urinal in an art gallery."
The cock was made of the same wood as the seat, only worn almost glassy-smooth. "Somehow, I think that there's a simpler explanation," I replied. I pointed at the trunk of the tree, which was decorated with what looked like decades of women's names carved into its bark. "See how smooth that... um... appendage... is? And count the names." There must have been hundreds.
"So, what you're saying is that all these women, ah, used... this swing... for their own purposes?"
