Tiny Traditions
June 30, 2023
It’s either been cold, cloudy, or raining this June. Every morning, at 7 am when the alarm goes off, I’ve wanted to pull Nelly and Bernadette, our puppies, (I don’t want to start this off with the wrong picture in your head,) close and go back to sleep for the rest of the day.
I haven’t done this once, not even on the weekend. By 7:05, my feet are in slippers. I stagger upstairs for coffee and to check the weather on my phone.
Things have started to look up a bit; three days in a row, I have put on my mismatched swimsuit and gone to a pool.
On Sunday afternoon, our friend, James, invited us to his apartment pool. The sky was cloudy, but the air was thick and warm.
We went. Thunder came. We packed up the towels and made dinner reservations nearby.
Day two was Monday. After work, my daughter invited us to visit the pool where she lifeguards. Same weather as Sunday, except the sun was out. I grabbed my bag from the day before and we went.
It took me a few minutes to make it down the pool steps, the water was freezing. It was smaller, no one was there. The air smelled like lilacs and chorine. My husband and I had an hour before Katy was done with work.
I looked up at her, said “Katy, count me down!”
Katy looked at me and said nothing.
I said it again, not that loudly. She was at work, even though no one was there.
She shook her head no.
I probably looked a bit silly, standing there, waiting for her to call out “10, 9, 8…” so I could plunge in, head first, shivering and smiling.
Our ritual for a million years was that when we went swimming, we would count down from ten before plunging head first into the water. It hasn’t happened much in recent years, we don’t go swimming together that often, she is nineteen years old and prefers to go the beach with her friends; I can’t imagine why.
In the beginning, I was the one doing the counting. But around the time her age went into double digits, she’d skip the steps, and dive right off the dock, or into a wave. Afterwards, she’d splash me a few times, before I told her I was ready and not to count too fast.
After she shook her head the third time, she giggled.
I got out of the pool and went home.
When my daughter came into the house last night, we talked. Actually, she sat me down and explained that while she is working as a lifeguard, she can’t humor her mom, even for a time honored tradition that ranks slightly above the dog cookie party at bedtime. Katy explained her response was not meant to be unkind, she was just uncomfortable.
We’d talked about giving it another try tonight, but when she didn’t respond to my text, I took the dogs for an extra long walk, and, once again, pulled on the same mismatched swim suit, the same shorts, the same sandals. I grabbed my beach bag without even checking to see if the goggles were still there.
It was already 530 by the time I left, so I drove to Cunningham Pool, about a mile away from our house. The parking lot was full, but I found a spot close to the entrance.
It took me moments to skip down the path that led to the gate; I left a trail of moms and dads, strollers and wagons, babies, and toddlers, teenagers, and not quite teenagers.
I found a spot, the same spot I’ve used ever since I started going to Cunningham by myself, about five years ago. It’s close to the showers, under a tree, near a bench and a water fountain.
I didn’t even lay out a towel. Just dropped my shorts, pulled off my shirt, and kicked off my sandals.
The water was ice cold. I walked in slowly at the shallowest part of a very large shallow end. While my body grew used to the temperature, I spotted our neighbor from across the street. One of the lifeguards looked just like one of Katy’s friends younger brother.
There were water toys scattered on the lawn, around parents and babysitters, many fully dressed. They were watching their kids play or scanning the water to find them, making small talk and laying out snacks.
It appears that mostly, water toys are exactly the same as they were when Katy was little. She had no interest in anything I brought, she’d just paddle around the pool, looking for a kind mom with a big basket or beach bag, and ask if she could borrow a pail, or a submarine.
Middle school boys were playing some kind of game that involved a lot of shouting, or maybe they were in elementary school. I saw three little girls teaching a baby how to swim, and heard a teenager yelling at his mom he was too old to babysit- “I have a life, and no one else has to come here!”
The only pre teenagers and teenagers at Cunningham tonight were babysitters, lifeguards, or those who had done something really bad and were on serious punishment.
That’s what it was like years ago, when my kids were young, and when my kids were not so young.
I’ve been going to Cunningham Pool by myself for a while now.
It only took me a few minutes to get used to the water, and to make my way to the lap lane. I sprinted, and did breaststroke. I went from one end to the other. on my back, just using my arms. I dove under and turned a few somersaults.
I’d stop to look around, and then slide back in the water. I swam for almost an hour.
Afterwards, I put conditioner in my hair and rinsed it off under the outdoor showers. There are pine trees all around the bathhouse, all around the pool. As night falls, they leave shadows, and I could hear the whisper of the needles, or maybe that was my imagination.
Cunningham is a kingdom, mostly for families, young families, and they are noisy.
It is also a kingdom for me, and one of my tiny traditions- swimming laps, by myself, on just before dark at Cunningham Pool.
I head home, already showered and ready for bed, just like the toddlers, to the delight of their parents.
I was not, and am not, the same woman, who wouldn’t go swimming last night because I needed my daughter to coax me into the cold by calling out numbers from ten to one.
Not tonight, anyway. Tonight, I am strong and sleepy. I don’t need a kiss from Katy or a night time conversation with my mom. I will slide under sheets as easy as I glided through the deep end of Cunningham.
It’s the beginning of summer.
Katy and I will go to the beach and eat ice cream on the boardwalk. Sheldon and I will visit the North End and find a spot by the harbor to listen to music from the pavilion.
Next week, I hope to spend some time at Ponkapoag Pond with some friends, swim from one end of the lake to the other and play ping pong in the lodge.
I am a strong swimmer; probably more competent in the water than on land.
I don’t need anyone coaxing me to dive in, I don’t need anyone watching or swimming near by to make sure I don’t drown.
But it’s always nice to have someone I love waiting on the deck, or swimming beside me.
The beginning of something amazing.
June 27, 2023
I haven’t been swimming yet and it’s almost the end of June. We tried yesterday; made it to James Paul’s pool, peeled off clothes and settled on lounge chairs. While I waited to feel my skin grow hot and ready for a plunge, thunder clouds rolled in, followed by thunder.
If there hadn’t been kids’ watching, I probably would have jumped in, just to say I’d been swimming. But there were, and so I slid back into shorts, folded my towel and went inside to watch golf. The afternoon improved drastically over dinner at Legal Seafood’s, which is even more of a treat than a ten second dunk in ice water. The Cucumber Margarita was a revelation, but, and James, don’t take this the wrong way, calamari is better fried, sauteed, the tentacles just look too damn naked.
This summer, Sophia won’t be back at her post near the fence in our tiny yard, yelling at people, then daintily nibbling treats from their hands. But Bernie and Nell have taken up the job. They have also continued the cookie party tradition, and gobble biscuits every night before bed. These last longer, since they spend a lot of time sniffing around under the covers, snorting and looking for crumbs. Sophia never looked for crumbs.
I thought summer would feel different, now that both my kids are older, and don’t rely on me to remember the sunblock, nag them about jobs, or a curfew.
It doesn’t.
I grew used to swimming at our town pool by myself by the time Katy was nine. When she was twelve, the only time I’d see her at Canobie Lake Amusement Park, was when she needed money for snacks or souvenirs.
When Katy, me, and some friends, went to the amusement park last Friday, she ate dinner with Amy and I, and paid for her own burrito. I did Venmo her money for gas, but she hadn’t asked, and let her take the car so we could leave early. She left fifteen minutes after we did. I think Katy’s almost my age, sometimes, at nineteen.
I do not miss the days of helping tiny bodies wriggle into swim suits or tracking Colin’s movements on Find My Iphone- (though the only outcome from that fun game was a series of mean text messages I’ve managed to forget and the knowledge that he needs to figure out where is he is and where he wants to go, without my help. That might take some time, but I’m not watching the clock or the calendar).
I will spend more time in the city, exploring the neighborhoods I used to live and remembering who I was when I lived there. I will check out a concert or three at the pavilion by the water. I will swim in the ocean at Nantasket, and in the lake at Ponkapoag. I will get to know the attendants at Cunningham Pool, so they are forgiving when I forget my pool tag.
I will use sun block and eat local. I will help Sheldon with the garden and check out the comedy at the Milton Art Center. I will spend time with friends, in person, and will learn how to use SnapChat because I look so damn cute in the filters.
I will stop fussing that it’s the end of June and I haven’t been swimming.
It’s only the end of June; I have time to go swimming. I have time to go back to Canobie Lake Park to try the roller coaster we didn’t have time for, ride my bike to Boston along the new bike path, and eat ice cream in a parking lot, quick before it melts on my shirt.
It will end up on my shirt, anyway.
And, honestly, who cares.
It’s summertime. I usually have a change of clothes in the car.
What’s on your list?
Strange Season
June 13, 2023
This has been a strange season.
It’s mid June, we were still burning wood in the pellet stove last week. The mornings were so cold. I’d go to work in dressed in layers. With the chill in the morning, and the air conditioner, most days, I’d end wrapped up in a sweater, like I started, with fuzzy slippers replacing my heels of good intentions.
I’m still working at Quincy College, in the wilds of financial aid. I do math all day long, and navigate systems I didn’t know existed. I’m still trying to figure out how to make the FAFSA less scary; we call it the ISIR in our department, probably not that fun fact. That makes it sound even scarier, I think.
I get a ride to work most mornings, I kiss two dogs goodbye, Nell and Bernadette. They lean out the window and wait. Chanel is an exotic American Bulldog, and Bernadette a Frenchie. I’m not sure how I ended up their mom, but it had something to do with Colin, my 23 year old son, who lives far away. He is gone, though that has not been hard to get used to. I miss him, but mostly when I’m looking at pictures of him from when he was ten.
Sophie never would have kissed me goodbye. She liked sleeping in, and would lounge on the bed until after eleven if her bladder held out. She’d wake first when I woke, a garbled barky syllable would come out of her mouth, and she’d roll over so I could rub her belly before I had to force myself from under the blankets, and away from her, to get ready for work. Then, while I searched for the right shirt, she’d go back to sleep, snoring softly. Those last few months, I was especially quiet, as I moved around in the morning.
Katy is home, and is a different creature these days. She cooks, reads thick, dense, novels, signed up for Instagram, and just loaded the dishwasher. (She’s only been home a few weeks, and I’ve been generous with the car.) Her expired passport and three pairs of socks have been on the stairs since she got home, so my daughter’s still here.
When I look back on the pandemic, it is meditating with Katy that I remember and watching Mrs. Maisel, driving her to her boyfriend’s house, and hiking the Blue Hills with Sophie while I waited until I was summoned to get her. I wasn’t working then, and I loved walking the woods, by myself. I still do.
That was an even stranger season than this one, I guess.
I wonder what I’ll remember about these days, and when the water will be warm enough to go for a swim.
I wonder if anything will feel normal anytime soon, and what normal looked like.
In the meantime, I will look forward to Cape Cod and the fireflies. I will cherish that Katy is upstairs, fifty feet away, and we have tentative plans for dinner tomorrow. When I’m done here, I will do yoga while Chanel climbs up my leg and Bernadette snorts, and laugh between breaths.
This is a strange season, not long after the strangest season.
But strange isn’t bad- it is unfamiliar, a little scary, but it has forced me to pay attention.
Bernadette is under the table. Katy is listening to a playlist based off of a song by Her’s, (Her’s is the name of a band). The sink needs a rinse, the laundry needs to be switched. I have roasting vegetables in the oven that are just about done, I made them for lunch.
It’s so easy to let it all slip by, and find yourself at the kitchen table smelling sweet potato, yesterday’s candle, and the rain.
julierichmond 