Every year we pay our pool dues. When we moved here sixteen
years ago, the neighborhood pool area was a huge
enticement. Our first house, The Cottage House offered three swimming
options; a ten minute drive to another neighborhood, a garden hose and a kiddie
pool, or a thirty minute jaunt way out in the country to an old metal
bridge famous for a clean, clear swimming hole. So when we made the
move out west to The Mansion, the nearby, chlorinated neighborhood pool
was like enjoying a coconut sno-cone in the shade. Irresistible.
The dues are not a covenant requirement but without them the pool is
off limits. They are a guarantee for the couple of times per summer when we get the
urge to put a swimsuit on and go public.
The last few years it has basically become our contribution to
the continued beautification of our subdivision. I think KT went once last
year.
Our attendance for this year was a
couple of weeks ago. The water was
perfect due to cooler days and decent rainfall compared with the true drought
of last year. And I have a new bathing
tent which means the fabric is still firm and the print not dulled by sand, sea
or chlorine. I am always going to get in
the water because that’s where the fun is.
But after paparazzi beach pictures surfaced last summer, I banned
photogs. I’m no longer a bathing beauty
and things have happened to my body I find too shocking to reveal for a
permanent record. But since we are such
good friends, I did enclose this current shot of me headed for the pool.
While we were up to our ears in blue
water, I thought of this piece I wrote a while back.
********
Tomorrow is the first day of
school. With a heat index of 108 this afternoon, it makes perfect sense
to start the new school year during the Pit Bull days of summer. Enticed
by the thought of cool water, we headed to the pool while M.G. stayed home,
working on her summer homework due in two days.
She is required to turn in a printed document containing her answers for
twenty-four questions about the three books on her summer reading list. Each answer must be at least half a
page. The fact that she has already read her books makes me question if
she is really my girl. I know somewhere out there a parent is cracking a
whip over a teenager strapped to an armchair with only water and The Grapes of
Wrath for sustenance.
While she toils, we broil in our 30
SPF-coated, delicate, middle-aged skin. Floating
on neon noodles and a mesh float, we are constantly paddling out of the way of
splashing, screaming kids, trying to aim ourselves in the right position for
the strongest rays. As kids, suntan
lotion, not sunscreen, was used to enhance the tanning ability or just not used
at all. I remember lying on my bed, trying to sleep as the Solarcaine and
Noxema vapors wafted above my body, tearing my eyes. Today we are trying
to get a healthy glow.
The late afternoon of the last day
before school has enticed children of all ages, except teenagers, to fill the
pool. The lone teenage girl only uses the pool for a refreshing dip
from the strenuous task of lying out and watching the cute lifeguard as he
tests the pool ph. Behind her darkly shaded eyes, she imagines being
rescued when he jumps in to save her. The bubble is burst when a saucy
lass brings the lad a fast-food snack. He
represents the extent of mature teenage boys found at the pool today. His friends are too busy mowing yards or
passing out dry-cleaning.
On the other side of the pool, a
petite summered vixen twirls the all-important lifeguard whistle deftly around
her hand like a yo-yo. Given the few pieces of fabric deemed appropriate
for the life-saving apparel of Miss Lifeguard, the lack of oogling boys is
amazing. Thankfully, the seams have not been tested by a perilous situation
requiring her to actually perform her duties. However, the pre-teen and
barely teen boys follow her like guppies. The boys of summer. Rules
are passionately broken to gain her attention. The requisite tweet,tweet
of the whistle from her lips falls into the boy’s ears as if a stadium crowd
were going wild over his winning touchdown.
A bevy of hormones, hotwired to running, jumping legs,
lifts the jumper up into the total abandonment of freefall and the split second
rush before waterfall. A dozen boys in the aquatic Cannonball Express, a
speeding circuit from ladder, board, pool, ladder, board, pool. “Water out of pool. Water out of pool.”
Over and over, in a frenzied pace, turning the deep-end into the wild blue
sea. The caboose heads to the round house after several runs.
Grinning, he plops down and pats my hand. I have always loved the boys of
summer.
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