Every summer, during my visits to my grandparent’s home in North Todd, my grandmother was constantly engaged—tending her garden, preparing supper, or maintaining the house. Yet, on some lazy afternoons, a cherished ritual would take place on the front porch of their old farmhouse, which seemed to sway in harmony with the seasonal rhythm.This was where Grandma held court, her kingdom bordered by painted white railings and the hum of the vast countryside beyond. Her throne was an old wooden swing that creaked in time with her movements, a steady, comforting rhythm that was as familiar as the cicadas’ song.
With a fly swatter in hand, Grandma waged a relentless war against the flies that dared invade her peaceful domain. The weapon was faded from years of service, its plastic mesh softened from countless battles. Each swat was a decisive action, a declaration that this porch was under her watch.
From my spot on the steps, it all seemed a bit comical. The flies, undeterred by their fallen comrades, swarmed with even greater numbers, buzzing defiantly as if to challenge her sovereignty. Grandma would laugh, and say, “I swat one, and ten more come to its funeral!”
One lazy afternoon, curiosity got the better of me, and I asked, “Grandma, do you really think you can get them all?” She paused, looking at me with a twinkle in her eye, then at the pile of vanquished foes at her feet.
“Well, honey,” she began, her voice soft and joyful that always warmed my heart, “I reckon I can’t get them all, but that won’t stop me from trying. It’s about making our little spot here as comfortable as we can, even if it means battling flies all day.” She patted the empty space beside her on the swing. “Plus, it’s a bit of fun, isn’t it? Keeps me sharp!”
Sitting beside her, watching her swing the swatter with an artist’s grace, I understood. It wasn’t just about the flies. It was a dance, a ritual that rooted us to this place, to this moment. It was about claiming our peace against the chaos of the world, about the satisfaction found in small victories.
Even now, years after the swing has stilled and the porch is gone, I can still see Grandma there, swatter in hand, a content smile playing on her lips. She might not have beaten all the flies, but she certainly captured the heart of her grandson, who learned that even the most futile efforts have their own kind of beauty.