Bits And Pieces

Pool Panic

     Be sure to check your oil daily before heading for the pool--body oil that is.  Speaking of the pool, and who isn't these days?  That heated debate over too warm or not too warm is not exactly my pool problem.  It's whether I can stay afloat once my body touches the water that bothers me.

     Oh I'll admit warmth sure adds to my well being, and coolness to the congealing of my muscle fiber, cowardly heart and pale corpuscles.  So seeing as how I use only the shallow end for my mermaid activities I've a mild suggestion--Couldn't the shallow end--my end of the pool--be heated?

     This might provide extra safety too.  Those visiting grandchildren and I would know when we were out of our depth.  When the temperature changed we could scuttle back to warmth and safety and those lap swimmers would receive a new burst of energy at the warm end.

     I'm sure there would be a few problems, like someone in authority would have to appoint someone to keep the warm where it belongs and the cool where it belongs--none of this mixing the two together and we might have to sell tickets for standing room at the warm end.

     However, I've never done well at problem solving--take my swimming for example.  My only exposure to water as a child was in the bathtub.  My Mother considered the pool near our house as a breeding ground for athlete's foot and dirty language, so I was kept home.  Our summer vacations when I was a slip of a girl were spent traveling on water but never in it.

     But I married Pop.  He liked to fish and our children liked to swim which meant cottage vacations.  Our cottages were always on the edge of large lakes anywhere.  Now I'd go on those lakes on any size boat--but I completely panicked about dousing my body in that same lake.

     I simply had to have one foot solidly planted along the bottom or a hand along the side.  Oh I didn't mind getting my face wet, my head wet or any of me wet, but to lay out flat in the water and trust I'd float--never!

     Our three boys thought it was great fun to swim under water, grab my underpinnings and send me sprawling, gasping and coughing in my four feet of water.  But my sheer terror finally convinced them to let me paddle around in the shallows.  The water there was usually murky and wash machine warm, but I was content to bounce hanging onto a rubber raft.

     Shame finally got to me though when I had no one older than five to converse with near me.  So I took swimming lessons.  Twice I was an older member of the Tadpoles at the Y--but I had serious learning disabilities--I wouldn't let go of the small wooden float; and graduation day had me clutching my wooden paddle to my bosom with fear frozen fingers refusing to move from my four or five feet of water.

     Two family friends both lifeguards had, according to them, taught everyone to swim.  But Betty in the water they had never met.  They tried.  Now we write occasionally but swimming is never mentioned.  Eventually I ignored the whole thing, that is until Pop and I retired, moved to Wisconsin and bought a small fishing boat.  All of a sudden three boys who always tried to drown me were concerned over my water safety.  So we installed life jackets--fore and aft and in the middle, and on scout's honor I declared I'd wear one.

     The pool at our condo up North was deserted during school hours--so at the shallow end alone I finally learned to float.

     Flushed with pride and success I could hardly wait until each boy and daughter watched their Mother get wet and then throw herself recklessly in four feet of water and FLOAT!

     Great!!  Right?

     There always has to be one to burst my pride balloon.  Our five-year-old granddaughter who sprouts fins every summer eyed me as I shoved off nervously in the shallow water carefully floating.

     Hands on small hips she yelled as I came up for praise and air, "Gosh Grandma!  Even if you never do learn to swim I'll always love you!"  

Written 1978/79