As soon as wildflowers peeked through the damp, leafy forest floor, windows were flung wide open to welcome in the lake breezes and the moist smells of spring, including the thawing corral, heavy with muck flung everywhere by muddy, high-spirited ponies.
I couldn’t wait to walk barefoot across the new lawn emerging from the still cold ground, coating my toes in mud and grass.
Spreading spring through the house.
Annually driving Mom to distraction.
Shedding winter layers, the half-mile walk from the bus stop to the back door became leisurely, but energized by the land’s reawakening, the leaves of the trees unfurling and neighborhood dogs re-emerging, reminding me that the lazy days of summer were just out of reach.
When dad got out the backyard hose and played the evil ogre, who squirted little children when they tried to cross his lawn.
But try we did, again and again.
Until the evil ogre tired and headed to the cool of the pool.
And we happily followed.
Finding pure joy in the playful moments with Dad.
He’d dive into the pool, slightly askew, and find his first target, who giggling and excited braced themselves for the certain lift that would come from below and hoist them high; each waiting their turn to be Dad’s focus, knowing full well that the opportunity was fleeting before he was off, usually to golf, while we stayed behind for hours on end, water-logged and pruny, but supremely happy playing Jump or Dive and seeing who could make the biggest cannonball splash.
Jim always triumphant.
The closest Jim and I would ever be physically matched was in the pool. Buoyant and fearless, I’d challenge him at Kung Fu fighting, complete with sound effects and slow-motion kicks until, bored by the balance, Jim would grab me and dunk me until I surrendered.
Mia and I had our own competitions which would begin innocently enough - one of us boasting how many laps we’d done. We’d look into each other’s bloodshot eyes for signs of a challenge and off we’d go, stroke after stroke, lap after lap.
Ten, twenty, thirty laps, keeping an even pace, with no sign of the other slowing.
Forty, fifty, sixty laps. Slower, but still determined.
Who would be the first to surrender?
Seventy, eighty, ninety laps.
We’d hear Mom call us in for dinner, but even our grumbling stomachs could not dissuade either of us to stop.
One hundred laps.
Mom would call out again.
“Okay,” Mia would say, “we’ll BOTH stop at 110.”
But then I’d turn and head out for one more.
Of course, Mia would follow.
One-ten, one-twenty, one-thirty.
Mark would soon be standing poolside with his hands at his, tiny hips, having been sent from the house.
Dinner is getting cold and Dad is getting mad.
Ever fearful of being scolded, I’d turn to Mia and make her promise this would be our last lap.
She’d agree, so I’d climb from the pool and grab my towel, expecting her to follow, until I saw that glint in her eye as she sunk back into the shallow end and pushed off the wall for one, final victory lap.
Heather, our Labrador Retriever, always joined us poolside, relentless in her quest for someone to throw a ball in for her to retrieve. Even after she tired out all possible playmates, she figured out a way to carry on. Dropping the ball into the water, Heather would patiently wait for it to float to the center of the pool, then leap in after it.
She took the term “water dog” to a whole new level. Especially when we first witnessed her retrieve a punctured tennis ball that had sunk to the bottom of the deep-end. Nose first, she executed a perfect corkscrew dive eight feet to the bottom.
And did so innumerable times over many summers before the years stole her strength.
The pool was a place of gathering and discovery, where barely clad teens found excuses to get close.
Flesh to flesh in playful moments.
Unleashing new sensations.
New awareness.
Especially for Dad, who once sent me to my room to change when the bathing suit Chris brought me from the islands drew too much attention from Jim’s friends and I became acutely aware (and even more self-conscious) that I could have such an effect.
During my teens, I’d often arrive home late summer nights, with the house quiet and parents sleeping, strip down to nothing and dive into the dark of the deep-end, where naked, unabashed, unheard and unseen, I’d scream.
Hard.
For as long as my breath would hold.
I’d scream out my discontent and crippling self-doubt.
I’d scream out the sadness.
I’d scream until it hurt.
Then I’d float and look to the sky and the barely discernible stars with my highly dysfunctional eyes.
I’d breathe, long and slow, listening to the sound of my breath and the occasional call of a neighboring owl hidden somewhere within the dark silhouettes of the tall trees surrounding me.
And eventually, I'd find enough peace to count my own lucky stars and head to bed with the smell of chlorine wafting me into watery dreams.
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