The perils of childhood summers

We signed up for beginner sessions at the pool a few weeks ago, and then the lessons began this past Monday. There we all stood, a bevy of parents, grandparents, and swimsuit-clad kids of all ages. The perky, tanned lifeguards called out names and got everyone into the proper groupings, and the guardians and younger siblings made their way to spots in the grass or shade, where we plunked down to observe the swimmers-in-training.

It's funny how you can bury a memory, and then years later it all comes back with unsettling clarity. It's the swimming lessons' fault. My kid hates them. He needs them, I know. It is essential that he learn to swim. Crucial. Absolutely a must. But it's not fun. Not yet, anyway.

I didn't fully recollect how much I, too, used to hate swimming lessons until the second day of this week, when my sweet son pleaded silently with me from the pool, his face distorted by the telltale pre-cry grimace. I spoke to him over the fence, as close as I was permitted to get. He had to be tough, I said; he just needed to do his best. It was okay if it wasn't perfect. It would get easier. Etc. Etc. In vain. He heard not a word through his misery. I gave up after a minute and returned, guilt-stricken, to my safe spot in the shade.

The next day, I stayed farther away. When he looked my way repeatedly, I looked down at the notebook in my hands, adding imaginary items to my grocery list so he knew without a doubt that I wouldn't save him and let him out of the lesson commitment. This morning, after he'd played the tears card in the car before the lesson began, I went farther; I sat behind a huge mountain of a man after my son entered the pool, thus totally obliterating the kid's view of me. He seemed to give up after a bit, according to a classmate's grandpa who was keeping watch as he sat next to me, and by the end of class my boy was actually trying to retrieve a ring from under water. This is big for us, believe me. Ring retrieval is an enormous step.

Now, we have a few days off from lessons, and I pray that his ring-seeking moment of bravery will not be forgotten over the long weekend. The point of this post, though, is not how my boy hates swimming; it's the fact that my vicarious suffering has brought back to me memories of my own early days at the "big pool." The sad truth is that I recognized that dripping, grimacing face of his, and it was my face. From many years back.

My teacher was not a cute, brown-skinned teenager. My teacher was Miss Betty. She was ancient to us kids, but old even by the standards of most adults. Her hair was frizzy and white, and when she instructed the older kids and was submerged, I'm pretty certain she wore an old rubbery swim-cap. Her requisite blue suit was stretched over her doughy flesh, and I don't recall that she was actually tanned even though she had reportedly life-guarded since birth; she must have been an advocate of sunscreen even back in the day. Or, her weary pigment had just given up.

Miss Betty had about as many soft, fuzzy edges as a box. Her voice was not an encouraging coo—it was more of a bark. She had no tolerance for fear, and she accepted no excuses. When she said blow bubbles, by God you blew bubbles. Even if you filled the pool with snot as you wept openly. There we stood, a row of horrified 6-year-olds, our blue lips quivering (the lessons always happened in the morning, early in the summer when the water was still barely 75 degrees), and Betty made us blow, and float, and kick until we could barely move our frozen limbs.

For many of us not raised near a ready supply of deep water, the idea of putting your face under water it not appealing. The very sensation of water rushing around one's head, up one's nose, into one's ears is pretty frightening. Doing this under duress while a crabby old lady hollers at your from above the water's surface or, worse yet, "helps" you to do these things, is pretty traumatizing. At several points my terrified, oxygen-deprived young brain was convinced that Betty would let me drown. She never did.

In fact, not only did she manage to pass me on to the next level, turtle-floating and bubble-blowing in adequate fashion, but she also delivered artificial respiration successfully to an infant a few years later, thus saving a baby from drowning. She may not have been heavy on charm, but she knew her stuff, that Betty.

So, I know there is hope for my boy. I can still side-stroke myself to safety these days thanks to her Betty's stubborn efforts, and I do go under the surface willingly, not just when forced to do so. But my heart breaks a little when I imagine the thoughts that must be going through my little guy's head. I keep reassuring him that the guards know what they're doing, that they all started out the same way that he is starting, the same way that I started. It does get easier. I can't assure him that it will ever be easy—that might be a lie. But easier? Yes.

Happily, I can still say with certainty that Dory was right: "Just keep swimming." I just wish we could skip this part of the learning experience.

The real me

Yesterday, I found myself near a department store. So, I decided to head in and abuse myself until I felt really depressed.

Well, that wasn't how it started out—but that's pretty much how it ended.

I made the mistake of doing a little spontaneous swimsuit shopping. Foolish, I know. That sort of adventure requires preparation, the pumping up of one's ego, a salad for breakfast to alleviate guilt, etc. But I broke all the rules because, by golly, the suits were all 50% off. Unfortunately, that was 50% off of the price, not the size of my thighs.

(If you're one of the two guys who actually read this, I apologize. I think a guy can relate if he thinks of areas of his body that haven't held up too well over the years, or of tasks that used to be easy that now require real effort. I'll try not to be too graphic or girly. I'm not a terribly girly girl, anyway, so I think you'll be safe.)

It began innocently enough, with simple purchase pursuits like toilet paper and sunscreen. And then. There they were, in all their stretchy, bright-colored glory. Animal prints, pink hyacinths, little skirty bottoms that one might believe could hide flaws. They hung enticingly, just the styles I'd been admiring in a magazine recently, with adjustable straps and reinforced tummies and all those wonderful extras that would turn me into a model. I couldn't help myself; I slipped into the happy world of what I look like in my mind. I grabbed an assortment of tops and bottoms and carried them with misguided hope to the dressing room.

Oh. My. Goodness. The first top was too small, which squeezed certain areas painfully until I feared I'd be unable to remove the article. I tried the other, and it was too large and turned the same aforementioned areas into ridiculously unflattering, saggy triangles. All through this painful process, I couldn't help noticing that my arms are really quite dimply and white. And round. And that there are parts of the lower arm that appear to be nearly detached because of the way they function independently from the rest of my upper torso.

But oh, that's just above the waist. Below was even worse. More fishy whiteness, more dimpling and orange peels where there should be none, more bulgy parts that refused to stay hidden smoothly under spandex. Why are all the modern, fashionable waistbands right at the plumpest part of my waist? In my mind, I'm still a slender, wasp-waisted gal... Where is that girl now? Oh, that's right. Over 40, had a baby, can't stop eating mac and cheese, etc.

The rear view was too upsetting to discuss. I realize I could amend some of this with harder exercise and more eating discipline, but honestly, it would require a lifestyle choice and self-centered approach that I just can't imagine happening right now. I have a 6-year-old, I can't justify the cost of joining a gym or hiring a trainer, and I already feel as if I've given up so much with the whole prediabetes issue that I'm just not willing to give any more.

The solution? I'll wear my old suit, which sports an old-lady skirt, and I'll wear my cute little cover-up I bought on super-clearance last fall, and I'll stop looking in 3-way mirrors under fluorescent lighting. Even if I get thinner and more fit, I can't ever match the image of me that I carry in my own mind. The idealistic vision that can't be found anymore. The imaginary Mel. I don't believe it's possible to regain that fresh face, the wide-open eyes, the tight neck skin, the hairless chin.

I'll do what I can. I don't look that bad, truly; I won't sit around beating myself up. Even as I left the dressing room, I saw far chubbier women shopping nearby and they weren't one bit worried about their thighs. I know I'm thinner than I was before my son was born, and I know I'm healthier than I used to be, too. And thank goodness I don't live at a beach where people hang out in swimsuits all the time. That's unsanitary, anyway. Right?

Still, it's a sobering moment, when you face the real you in a harsh reflection, and that real you confronts the happy younger you that lives cluelessly in your mind. Hey, little girl, says nowadays me. Hey, step aside or I'll sit on you. This is my house now. Move it, you bag o' bones.

Damn, I miss that bony kid. Or at least I miss her outward appearance. Now, pass me that big bathing dress and a bag of chips, okay?

Grande dame of the chlorinated world

In a mildly frenzied attempt to fit in all the activities we'd wanted to try before summer's end, we've been doing some running around in the past couple of weeks. Trips to fairs, museums, theaters, and water parks have all occurred here recently. One of the unexpected highlights, for me at least, was a recent afternoon at North Park Pool.

Now, North Park is huge, and I've canoed on the lake and taken walks and attended various picnics and parties there. But until last weekend, I'd never visited the pool. We simply live too close to our local pool to justify driving the extra 5 or 10 minutes to that old northern behemoth. However, after our last trip to the nearby pool, Marcus declared it too "splashy" (translation: too overpopulated with mostly older kids who kicked, jumped, and otherwise disturbed his watery revery). I'd read about the monstrous North Park pool and wanted to check it out.

I called on Saturday at lunchtime for prices and hours, and found out from the recording that the pool would be closing in just two days because they simply could not keep it staffed adequately beyond that very weekend. We panicked, threw sunscreen and drinking water into the trusty beach bag, and headed north. That day, the pool's next-to-last day, was our only chance to go this season since we'd been gifted with baseball tickets for the following Sunday afternoon.

The vast pool parking lot alone is impressive; it has to cover 4 or 5 acres, or I've lost my spatial gauge altogether. We found a spot with ease, locked my ancient vehicle, and carried our goods to the window to pay admission. Following the signs led us through the women's shower and locker rooms (the only way to reach the pool). Those spaces, too, were unbelievably large—I stepped into more than one wrong passageway before finally finding my pathetic way, kid in tow, and emerging into warm sunshine.

The view hit me immediately. Both restrooms exit onto a huge concrete patio, the largest I've ever seen. Gigantic welcoming steps lead down to the pool, which is surprisingly enormous. The boy and I carefully descended those steps, going toward the separate baby pool which is also immense. We found a spot on the grass in between baby and "big" pools, spread our blanket, and hit the water. (No plastic adjustable chaise lounges here—this is old school, people.)

There was no danger whatsoever of splashy kids. The shallow end stretches for what seems like miles; any trouble is easily visible from some distance away. It was a cinch to avoid the few bigger boys who'd rented large, yellow tubes on which to float (and to upset from underneath unsuspecting buddies). The space along the wall, normally coveted areas of moms and small kids everywhere, was so ridiculously available that we didn't even feel the need to linger there. The water was perfect, not too warm but warm enough; we could look down to the other end and watch kids zip out of the big slide, observe others jumping into a deep end that was flocked on both sides by solid, red brick bleachers. Those babies weren't going anywhere. There must have been swim competitions here back in the day—perhaps there still are, for all I know.

When we headed up to the snack bar for goodies, peering inside revealed how it was also absolutely huge. The choices were limited; the management was trying to unload all the current stuff and hadn't ordered anything new in light of the next-day closing. We got some fries and I asked about taking them to our blanket. The young girl who served us explained that no food was permitted off of the veranda.

Yes, the veranda. I noticed the same message on a sign posted near the snack window. Now, I ask you: how many pools have you visited that have a veranda? Heck, how many homes have you visited with a veranda? My answer is none. Unless you count Fallingwater. But I didn't know those people, and it's not a home these days. So.

While we sat at one of the many picnic tables, I read bits from an old plague posted on a large brick wall that keeps snackers from tumbling down to the level of the pool far below. Apparently, this lovely, impressive place was dedicated in 1936. Probably a WPA undertaking, although I couldn't confirm it. The official title those days was "Allegheny County Swimming Pool," according to a separate but also ancient plague. I looked down from the massive veranda at the thousands of gallons of wet, at the very stable brick bleachers at the far end, at the expanse of grass on all sides of water, and I imagined what it must have been like when it opened. People streaming in wearing more modest swimsuits, throngs of ladies donning their gear in that mammoth dressing room. I wondered what sorts of snacks they served in the 30s. I pondered what the admission would have been, how long it must have taken many pool-goers to drive in temperamental automobiles on back road after back road. I tried to imagine the fellows, impressing the gals with silly dives and stunts, just like nowadays, yet more innocent—or at least that's how I pictured it. I longed momentarily for olden days, when just going to a pool was enough, when a shimmering rectangle of water was a day's vacation in and of itself.

And then I realized that it's still enough. I breathed a deep breath, stole one of the last fries from my son, and we wiped greasy fingers before tossing the evidence and lazily sauntering down to our blanket once more.

The swimming pool—or should I say, this swimming pool—will suffice quite nicely. It's still every bit as appealing as it was on opening day, because a true grande dame maintains her charm, even when her dew has gone.

Summer snapshot

In honor of post number 100—yes, that is correct, 100—I am penning (figuratively speaking, of course) a real, true memoir. I’ll begin to type it as soon as I recover from the shock of realizing that I’ve now sat on 100 separate occasions and confessed to a keyboard what I’m thinking and feeling. What a bizarre world we have created for ourselves.

All right, I’m over it now.

**********
A hazy, idyllic memory:

Three little girls, all in pigtails, on a very steamy summer’s day. Likely a Saturday, since the little girls’ father is there with them, and he wasn’t a man of frequent days off. The pigtailed girls are all fairly young, no teens among them yet, and they are innocent as the sky. They’re all wearing bathing suits, and they’re all tailing with giggles after the dad, who lugs a large and awkward piece of aqua blue plastic.

A pool liner.

Oh, the girls have a pool? No. Then why the excitement? Why are the little pigtails all aflutter? Why the bathing suits? Keep watching, now; you’ll figure it out.

The patient father, followed by his gaggle, drags and then positions the ungainly liner over a small footbridge constructed of 4 x 4 posts. The girls try to assist him, but in reality they are likely more of a hindrance. The small bridge that’s being covered crosses a small creek, maybe a foot at its widest point. It’s a shallow little creek, nothing impressive about it. Even after storms, it doesn’t do much raging.

And yet. That bridge rests above the creek by a good two feet. And it’s a deep creek, cutting a gash in the back yard through which it runs. And when a waterproof pool liner is positioned just right over the top of the bridge and into that gash of a little creek, water begins to collect there. And more water.

And suddenly, there is a rather substantial amount of water pooled before the bridge.

It is not swimming pool water. It is creek water. It’s cloudy, even muddy depending on how much activity is occurring in the “pool,” but that’s not the most important thing to know about it: It’s beyond brisk. It is cold.

The creek comes from a natural spring, far up the hillside; sometimes it contains runoff from a reservoir on that same hill. This is the 1970s, before mine subsidence had diminished that stream to a trickle. And whatever the source of that water, deep in the earth, it’s kept to a rather bone-chilling temperature. Even on a hot, hot day, it can take away a little girl’s breath.

The pigtails watch the water accumulate, dip their toes in, gasp at its frigidity, giggle some more, and wait. It’s halfway up to the bridge, it’s rising. It’s nearly to the same level as the bridge! It’s so deep! Or at least it seems that way in my memory.

I’m the youngest girl, around 6 or so, and all I can think about as I watch that water level rise is the creepy crawly wormy things that may or may not be collecting there. After all, I can’t see beneath the clouded surface. There might even be a snake in there, some confused and angry reptile that’s just waiting in his frustration for a small body to bite. But it’s so hot. And I’m so hot. And I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t get in.

The water is high enough to merit our entrance now, and we gingerly step into the cold. I seem to recall one sister plunging in boldly. I am the cowardly one, of course, picturing earthworms and slimy things and many-legged critters swimming ‘round my toes. But the chilly wet is intoxicating and addictive, and soon my fears are banished and I get in to my neck. If you sit right beside the bridge, the pool is a couple feet deep at least, plenty deep enough to immerse yourself if you so choose. And it just feels so good to be in that cold, with the relentless sun reflecting on the muddy surface and a balmy breeze in your face and hair. It’s not a swimming pool, but it feels like a distant cousin of one to these country girls. We splash each other and laugh and drink it all in—not the water, but the moment, the all-encompassing, shivery joie de vivre.

My mom is there too, although I don’t recall her actually getting in all the way. My dad might have gotten wet, but he is even these days remiss to wear shorts, so if he did submerge any part of himself, I’ll bet it was only for a moment. We "swim" and the pony across the fence watches us, bemused, swishing his tail and shaking his head at the endless onslaught of flies. It’s quite likely he is jealous of our bliss.

********

There’s a photo of this event. It’s in an album at my parents’ home—the same home where we swam in that fancy pool. The ponies are long gone on to a better place; the creek has dwindled and sometimes, after a dry spell, it’s completely absent. I wonder how much of that day I really remember, and how much I’ve created in my mind. I still have an inexplicable fear of earthworms; would I have the nerve to climb in that icy, muddy water today? I like to think I would…if the day were hot enough.

Happy summering to you.

Just keep swimming

Okay, so I’m a self-admitted Mel-come-lately, and I recently viewed Finding Nemo for the first time. Yes, I know, it’s very old news. It’s for children. It’s beyond yesterday. So sue me.

I loved it.

I might have bashed Disney at some point in the past—if not, I’m certain I’ll do it in the future—but for this moment, my impression of poor Walt’s twisted, overly commercialized dream is pretty sweet, thanks to my viewing of Nemo. It wasn’t perfect; it had its obligatory potty humor moment (“Nemo touched the butt!”) and parts that I thought were a tad too frightening for a G rating (the inevitable Disney parent death, the huge, blood-thirsty shark pursuit, the dark-sea-dwelling toothy fish pursuit, even the giant scuba diver mask rising out of nowhere to kidnap poor Nemo…) But it was, to put it plainly, a great flick. Disney (and graphics giant Pixar) got it right. The frightened dad was believable as an understandably overprotective parent. Nemo felt real as a kid who is ready for challenge and wants to be brave so his dad realizes how big he is. The lesser characters—the other kids fighting over one youngster’s shell, Gill the fish tank dweller who’s also gimpy and also hails from the ocean, Nigel the soft-hearted pelican, even those ludicrous seagulls chanting “mine, mine, mine.” It worked. It really worked.

And afterward, I kept thinking of Dory, the scatterbrained but very likable fish voiced by Ellen Degeneres. She was my favorite, so sweet, so silly and forgetful, so hapless. I felt like I knew her. I loved that she couldn’t give reasons for her instinctual hunches—I mean, how many of us can, really? I loved that moment as they sat on the verge of death inside a whale, ready to tumble back in the giant’s throat to a seemingly certain demise; she was telling Marlin to just let go, the whale said it’ll be okay, etc. etc., and when he asked her why he should, she said, “I don’t know!” And that moment resounded in me, for all the times I’ve felt something, felt the need to do or say something that I couldn’t explain—actions or statements that I occasionally felt sure were being prompted by God. And nearly every time, I wasn’t absolutely certain about the instinct or the prompt. Often, I didn’t know why I should do it (other than obedience, in the God-prompt situations); I certainly didn’t know what results it would bring. I am Dory.

But my favorite part? The line I couldn’t get out of my head? “Just keep swimming.” The precious scuba mask, Marlin’s only link to Nemo’s kidnapper and his location, has slipped into the deepest, darkest crevasse that Marlin’s ever seen. The mask drops farther, farther, and farther out of sight. He tries to retrieve it, only to suffer a fishy anxiety attack as soon as he’s immersed in the blackness. And there comes Dory, and she’s chanting that line with such cheery determination. In fact, the whole exchange cracks me up (I found it online):

Dory: Hey there, Mr. Grumpy Gills. When life gets you down, do you wanna know what you've gotta do?
Marlin: No I don't wanna know.
Dory: [singing] Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. What do we do? We swim, swim.

The best part is that while she repeats the mantra, they swim deeper and deeper into the great unknown and are ultimately successful in finding and decoding the lost mask.

Oddly enough, there’s a whole web page dedicated to quotes from the movie (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0266543/quotes) although I would guess there are countless web pages dedicated to quotes from every remotely decent film ever made, since we humans seem by and large to prefer unreality to our own tedious existences. But our sometimes tedious existences are the very point of Dory’s line, aren’t they? “Just keep swimming.” Even if you’re tired, or lost, or unmotivated, or don’t care for your swimming partners and teachers and the underwater growth around you… because that’s reality sometimes, if we’re being frank here. And although I’m always Mel, I’m also pretty darned good at being frank. Life can be dull. It can wear you down and make you weary, teary, ungrateful, and filled with ennui.

But it’s up to us, whether we just keep swimming, or float around expending energy in complaints and concerns. I even had my kid saying those words for a few days after we viewed the movie: “Just keep swimming.” It seemed appropriate, as I pretended I was a fireman for the 40th time that day, or carried more clothes to the washer, or cleaned up from yet another meal, or paid bills and watched one more paycheck slip away. Just keep swimming.

Just keep swimming. Because you can, because you must, because it’s better than being buffeted by the tides. And because the very fins we flutter, gimpy though they sometimes are, can deliver our greatest blessings if we hold them dear and use them to our best ability and with the intent of glorifying our maker. Even the tides can be blessings, if only we can learn to flow with them and not against them.

Maybe it’s a stretch for a Disney movie; maybe I’m reading too much into it. But I’m still going to say it to myself whenever I need a reminder to persevere: Just keep swimming.