I was thinking on the way back north after dropping Mom off this morning. Remembering my buddies and I going to the park and playing on the swing set. Because we were boys we didn’t ever play nice or more importantly, smart. One of us would get on the swing and the other would start to push. They would push and push, until we were going so high we were above the support bar, so high the chains would go slack. They would go slack and from that point you were no longer arcing out, centrifugal force would lose it’s grip and you would fall straight down…until the chains caught you again and whipped you backwards and up the other way. Sometimes the jerk of the chains catching you again would cause the whole thing to twist. At this point you begin to worry, ’cause your friends are not worried at all, their faces are contorted with mad little boy glee, ready to keep pushing while you are screaming like a little girl for them to stop, little boys KNOW how dangerous other little boys are. Eventually it would end, you would get off and wobble around a little from dizziness, bragging about how cool it was. This was OK. We’re kids, it does stop when you cry about it enough, you go home, mom makes dinner and you watch TV with a handful of chocolate chip cookies. Different when you grow up, crying doesn’t help, your wobbly and dizzy from multiple “pushers”, they have no mad glee, no, it’s pure evil and destructive madness.