For years we’ve perused Craigs List and local neighborhoods in search of a glider. Not just any glider, mind you, but one with a pie-crust pattern. We had two basket-weave patterned gliders already properly perched on our porches, but it was the pie-crust patterned glider that sat on my grandparent’s front porch when I was a young girl. It’s the one I remember.
My most vivid memory of their old white glider was the side arms. They seemed to stretch as tall as glaciers, but the tedious climb onto the metal-in-motion was well worth the effort, for my grandfather’s arms were waiting.
It’s funny how the glider seemed so much bigger when I was a child. But then again, didn’t everything?
My grandparent’s house seemed more spacious, the yard more widespread, and the stretch of my grandfather’s gangling arm never-ending.
Then one day you grow up.
The house is now considered cozy, the yard a cottage garden, and the grandfather’s arm is only a fond memory.