I enjoyed first hammock time at my new home recently.  The house I’ve lived in for just over a year is still becoming, is not yet, “home.” Regular hammock time might shift my emotional balance more toward that.  My old Paraguay hammock is still sturdy enough and is a delightful backyard “hang.”  It was in regular use at our former home, where the backyard featured two hang positions, both centered on the old, sturdy metal swing set frame between two suitable trees.

The hammock’s last use was in the Middler Sunday School room in January (when life was “old normal”), pretending (in winter) to be the “plant material” (it’s made of cotton thread – pretending can do magic) roof of our sukkah shelter from a lesson about an annual Hebrew festival commemorating the Wilderness years.

Suitable trees here are too far apart for an ideal hang, so I experimented with additional webbing and cajoled the hammock to a suitable height.   It was at the limits, but held me off the ground and foretold a summer of “normal” relaxation.  So I invited son Logan, also a fan of hammocks, to check it.  We can share; that’s what you do in a home.  He properly backed into it, let it take his weight, sagging as expected, and relaxed about six inches above the lawn.  A good height to drop from when, mere seconds later, the old, frayed webbing disintegrated.

I thanked him for providing the ultimate test so I know what to purchase to make it work.   

When I rig it with new webbing, I’ll hang it again and test it, then, again, offer it to Logan.  We can share.  All part of making this house a home, “a place where at least two things have to have happened: a minimal nurturing love and one positive experience that holds you in memory.” (Doris Diosa Davenport).  And hanging onto something normal, again.