I love lying in the hammock. There’s a cold beer on the upright log next to me and Pico is lying on the other side. Shamelessly, I use Pico as a push off to swing the hammock. He weighs enough to absorb the push, and seems to be content with the petting. Luckily he hasn’t attempted to join me in the hammock yet.
There are a couple of spider silks strung between two branches, and the afternoon light is glinting off of them. When the light breeze blows, they disappear and then reappear as a shimmer in the middle of nothingness. I can’t see where the silks tie into the leaves, but the suspended middle of the strings is visible more often than not.
Even when I’m not tired, the hammock seems to lull me into a state of pure apathy. Especially with the heat we’ve had this summer, the feel of the breeze encompassing my whole body is very relieving. Whatever book I’m reading inevitably ends up on the ground, and I have no qualms about spending an hour in semi-consciousness while hanging out in the hammock. Even Pico seems to relax when he’s there, only getting up to chase a red squirrel or chipmunk up one of the pine trees. He hasn’t gotten hit by a pinecone yet, but it’s not for a lack of trying on the squirrel’s part.
I push off of Pico again and run my hand lightly down his back as the hammock swings away. It’s a small price to pay for having such a reliable and useful partner. Lying in the hammock not only relaxes me, but brings back lots of memories from growing up. My grandparents had a summer camp on the Sacandaga Reservoir, near Vandenberg’s Point. The camp was set up on a hill, but it was just a short walk down to the beach.
They had a flight of wooden stairs that went down from the camp through the blueberry bushes. Halfway down the stairs, there was no railing on the right side, and that’s where the big, classic, white cotton hammock hung. It was low enough to the ground that an adult could put their foot down and push off. I just belly flopped onto the thing, shoved my arm through the netting and pushed off of one of the big knotty roots with my hand.
It was one of my favorite things about spending time at camp. The place was pretty close to home, so we would go up there a lot. There was no hammock at home, though, and the one at camp always seemed special. Maybe it’s because I shared it with so many of the important people in my life, but I don’t think I got lazy when I lay in that particular hammock. I just got happy.