The year I was born, my grandparents bought their house (which my dad later owned).  We went there every weekend and fairly often throughout the week.  Right down the street from this house there was this little park with this swing set and I’m pretty sure that I spent more time on that swing than I did sleeping.  I actually went enough that I developed calluses on my hands, arms, and legs where the swing would touch me, and at one point the swing seat tore through my jeans and cut my leg (which freaked out my grandmother).  I used to go there and sing or make up stories for hours at a time.  Looking back, I really have no idea why the neighbors didn’t tell my grandparents to lock me up, as I would sing loudly (and horridly) and actually reenact the stories in my head out loud (so I basically yelled at the train for hours on end).  Really though, going to the swing was basically my therapy as a young person.  I was going through some pretty messed up stuff at home, but I could always just be alone and deal with it at the park.  It is one of the things I miss most about my hometown.