An Early weekend re-post about a beautiful hammock that I rescued from a hammock shelter last summer.
I like hammocks. If you really think about it, it’s probably a near impossiblity to find someone who exceedingly dislikes hammocks. Inanimate object? Sure, but there’s little doubt that hammocks matter in this world. If they don’t matter to you, chances are you’re not a vacation lover, and that’s just fine. It’s just that your backside is angry with you for your apparent disdain of the relaxation that you’re depriving it of. Hammocks come in all shapes and sizes, that much is quite obvious, but there’s more to a hammock than the material it’s made out of. Everyone who’s ever owned a hammock knows this much- the quality of your hammock is only as good as the spot it calls home.
Take a look at that hammock up there. All blue and white and smug. Swaying gently in a mid summer Lake Geneva breeze. Nestled not more than 100′ from the most amazing body of water in the entire Midwest. I’ll bet when most hammocks die, they really hope they can come back as our arrogant little friend up there. The hammock below is pretty nifty too, resting lakeside on a beautiful white pier. The striped hammock isn’t without a story, as is the case with most of our woven friends. I was driving towards Williams Bay one day in early June when that stitched beauty caught my eye. I immediately swerved to the side of the road to get a closer look. It was as I suspected. Beautiful. Artfully designed, with sturdy wood base and a soft padded suspended mattress where a difficult mess of woven ropes would typically reside. The colors were perfect, and it screamed summer. There was even a built in pillow. My mind instantaneously flashed back to my foreclosure home, and I mentally dashed around the yard thinking of where this prize should rest. After a few moments of contemplation I came to a cold hard realization. This hammock was too good for my yard. It was too good for me. It deserved better than I could give it right now. So I did what any lover of the lounge would do. I called my mom.
I rushed through the description like a 6 year old recalling Christmas morning gifts. It’s blue and white. The stand is curvy and it’s wood. It’s striped! You just have to have it, mom! My powers of influence over my parents soundly intact, the hammock came to rest in what will be its eternal resting place mere hours later. I had succeeded in finding this creation a proper home, and like someone adopting a dog from a rescue, I think I saved this hammocks life.
It could have been bought by someone who might have driven it home to the suburbs. Worse yet, someone might have put it on a deck overlooking a fenced back yard. I can picture it, bumping along in the back of a pick up truck, peaking around every corner for a glimpse of where its new home would be. He would have been scared to death I’ll bet. Perhaps mistreated. Obviously mis-located, but possibly even neglected. Forced to spend a lifetime staring at the woods. Staring at a yard. Being beaten by high, dry winds, without a lake in sight. Life’s too short to let a hammock face that fate.
The hammock now rests. Asking nothing of my parents, and all too willing to provide a quiet spot to read or rest, no matter the time of day. Regardless of the reading material on hand, the backdrop is always the same. A beautiful lake. A beautiful day. And you. Here’s to the hammock. Buy yourself some Lake Geneva real estate this summer and I’ll buy you your very own hammock, maybe even one with stripes.