Pools and summer.  

My earliest recollection of being in a swimming pool is when I accompanied my older cousins to the city pool as a kid. I was probably 6.   

Because they didn’t want to watch me in the kiddie pool, I was forced to go in the shallow end of the big pool, of which I was terrified. The gigantic slide that had water spurting all over it, the enormous kids splashing on all sides of me.  Even the slimy floor of the shower room was scary to me.  

It was a relief when we were dry and safe in the backseat of Grandma Tullis’ car, heading to Dairy Queen.

I took swimming lessons when I was a little older. Still pretty scared of water, I tried my darndest to do whatever the teachers told me to do. The teachers were high school students, and one of them, a buxom gal named Dana, had me swim to her under water.  Flailing and swimming with all my might, I grabbed on to the first thing that was near my hand.

And it wasn’t her arm.  

I was among the select few students in that class who received a sucker instead of a Red Cross swimming pin. Go figure.

It wasn’t until we took a weekend trip to the Sikeston Rodeo that I conquered my fear of water.  We went with friends, and their kids were courageous and had no fear.  Not wanting to be left out, I decided I’d throw caution to the wind and jump off the diving board, too. After all, they were doing it and I was taller than most of them. Surely I wouldn’t drown.

I’ve been swimming ever since. I can’t really swim, but I can tread water and do a pretty mean backstroke. I can also doggy paddle like nobody’s business.

In high school, we actually had co-ed PE classes, and one of our three-week units was on swimming.  So, off we went for first hour PE to the local pool, where all anyone could really worry about was if they were going to get their hair wet; and that was just the boys. 

I was mortified that a girl I liked very much was in the same class with me, but I did my best to puff up my gangly, pasty white frame during those painful three weeks. Looking back, I wish I’d just jumped in and had a good time.  

But it was high school, after all.

When we were first married, we’d travel to a country club we had access to and swim in that pool. We thought we were right uptown. At that point in life, we had no kids, no cares in the summer, and on a sort of perpetual honeymoon.  

Kids came along, and pool time was mostly made up of running interference the whole time. There wasn’t much relaxing. It was a time when it seemed like I was a jungle gym with my kids climbing all over me. 

I miss those days and I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

It’s funny how times in the pool have changed. We used to swim all day, be absolutely worn out and starving by the end of the swim, and either sunburned or tanned like crazy. I’m one of those who burns then turns a browner shade of red, then nothing happens. It’s sort of like my skin only allows a certain amount of color change.

I was pondering all this pool history the other day when we were invited to a friend’s pool for a get-together. The group of friends is just happy to be together, catching up on life and telling old stories. When I got home, I had color on my skin from just below my shoulders and up; and the tip of my nose that stuck out under my floppy hat. 

I had to laugh a little.   You see, all of us old fogies had just stood in the water, keeping cool, and talking one another’s legs off. I pretty much stayed in the same spot the whole time.  No romping around, laying out in the sun, or chasing kids: just standing in the water and visiting.  

Still, it was fun for me to announce to one of the pool owners that we’d been in the pool for four hours and not one of us had felt the need to get out and go to the bathroom, followed by a wicked laugh.  

The pool owner looked more worried than amused. 

I mean, you gotta have a little fun.