The ole’ swimming hole

“How we gonna pour concrete in the deep end without leaving footprints?” Uncle Phil had asked.

The pool was to be something special in our small blue collar town — fact is for many years, the only one.  It was created from the labor and love of friends and family.  They’d bring shovels to digging parties and my parents furnished food and a promise of a refreshing swim the next summer. 

Papa’s old jeep dragged a scoop shovel in toe.  Only Uncle Gary looking over his shoulder had failed to see the back of the house.  Crash.  Mom was easy.  “I always wanted a back door,” she said.

Once hollowed to a 15’ x 30’ x 8’ hole, the sides caved in.  The giant pit then measured 19’ x 31’.  Papa, the local builder, parted with his collection of slightly rusted, leftover rebar and chicken wire to stabilize the packed soil.

To answer Uncle Phil’s question, Uncle Gary, a man of few words, roped Uncle Phil’s waist with the garden hose and lowered him headfirst into the cavity to smooth the concrete sides with his trowel.  Nine months from when we threw out the first spade of dirt, Dad flipped a shiny new dime heads up, denoting the year, into wet cement. 

After my uncles christened the new pool with one thousand guppies, I understood early on that relatives would not bring refinement into my life.  My uncles neglected to consider one detail — the filter.  It chopped the fish into millions of pieces.  Even now, Fish ‘n Chips on a menu is a real turn-off for me.

Like I did any better than my uncles.  Even when Dad told me NOT to let my pet ducks near the pool, my cousin Steve duped me.  He assured me we’d be able to get them out before my dad arrived home.  Ever try getting a duck out of water?

Today sunrays dancing on the water’s surface of the hotel pool filled my mind with laughter from days and people long gone.  Of family reunions, of impromptu guests, of weddings.  Yes, a wedding.  Guests at a summer social clad in bathing suits were surprised to find themselves attending a wedding, gift of the bride and groom.  And maybe even a skinny dip or two. 

Sometimes Uncle Gary dove into the pool with Uncle Phil stacked on his shoulders.  Other times Dad, in an old-fashioned stripped bathing suit of Mom’s handiwork, yelled, “Dive,” while Uncle Gary, already descending feet first, attempted to reach the water headfirst.  His belly flops watered everyone seated around the pool as well as the neighbor’s garden.

As I pull up the fallen strap from my swimsuit, I am reminded of my dad’s mom.  A strap of Grandma’s faded blue and white polka dot swimsuit constantly slipped off her shoulder.  She’d reach and pull the errant strap up.  One of Dad’s favorite pastimes was to drag out old home movies and run the projector in reverse.  Relatives arose magically from splashes of water and stood on the diving board in dry swimsuits.  I loved watching Grandma draw the strap from her bathing suit down on her arm, striking a sexy pose.

Long before, I’d sat on the diving board with legs too short for feet to dangle in the pool.  When as a mother, fully-grown, I sat on the battered board of the same pitted lathe and plaster swimming pool, my toes stroked the cool water.

Now tonight I sit at a hotel pool reminiscing.  When no one watched, I pulled my bathing suit strap back down on my arm.  I can be a sexy grandma, too.

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