Thoughts on my marriage.
February 18, 2025
Sheldon’s working tonight; I haven’t seen him since he dropped me off for work at 745 this morning.
A few minutes ago, I went downstairs to our bedroom to check on Michael the cat and find some slippers.
He’d made the bed before he left; he filled up the humidifier and it looks like he attempted to do something about the nightmare of socks on the laundry table.
When he makes the bed, the blankets are even on both sides. The pillows are fluffed, the comforter is neatly folded at the end.
All the stray glasses are gone from the nightstand, my eyeglasses have been placed high on the dresser. (Jack ate my glasses a year ago, Shel still hasn’t recovered, and the replacement pair is very fancy.)
Our conversations revolve around how much he slept, (never enough, I remind him he should stop watching war movies at 2 am and the impact on his lifespan, only getting five hours of sleep,) the dogs- how long they walked, if Chanel lost her sweater, if they ate their breakfast. If it’s too cold for the dogs, or too warm.
We talk about our kids, a little. When Kate’s home, more so, but pretty much based on the dishes in the sink or her current demeanor, we smugly agree on how lovely she is or how long it will be until she recognizes that she is too old not to least soak her egg pan.
About Colin, we worry about his mood, we compare notes on how he looked on Facetime. Colin worries us both, and there isn’t a damn thing we can do, but we call him a lot and I send him pictures of Chanel.
Sheldon worries about me, when he’s working, what I’ll have for dinner, how I’ll manage the dogs by myself when it’s icy.
He never needs to ask me how much I slept, I’m always asleep long before him, and if I can’t sleep, I will share that. Repeatedly. I do not do well on less than eight hours.
It doesn’t sound like a lot.
We worry about each other; we listen to each other. (I’ve stopped doing wordle in the car on the way to work. It was hard to give up, but marriage is sacrifice.)
We’ve heard almost all of the stories, and we don’t like the same shows.
But my husband made the bed for this morning, because he knew that tonight, it would make me happy.
So, we’re good.
If you know him, maybe you could mention he should get more sleep.
I hadn’t had time to read the Sunday paper this morning; we got to church late and slipped in the back door. We didn’t even have time to glance at the order of worship when the choir stood up and went to the piano.
Our music director began the first chords of “The Star Spangled Banner” and a soloist soprano sang out the first words- “Oh, say can you see, by the dawn’s early light…”
The choir joined in. The arrangement was slow, and thoughtful. I heard each word of our national anthem liked I had never listened before. There were moments my shoulders shook, and my throat choked- how has our proud nation with our flag, “whose bright stripes and bright stars/Through the perilous fight/O’er the ramparts we watched/Were so gallantly streaming’ come to where we are today, Sunday, October 27th, 2024?
(In case you’re wondering, as I just was, a rampart is defined as the wall of a city or a castle. I’m not sure which in this context, but I’m really not that well versed in history, American or otherwise.)
The Star Spangled Banner is a joyful, victorious, slightly boastful song, of unity, victory, and hope.
We are not there right now. We are fractured.
I hope we are on the way.
I pray Kamala wins and, I believe if that happens, the healing will begin, (after the inevitable whining, recounts, and I don’t even want to go there, here,).
But if she does not, and this is a possibility, we can not simply bow our heads and walk away. If Trump becomes President, we have to fight harder. I know the face of Project 2025 scares the hell out of me, but we are not a nation of people that wrings our hands and gives up. We’ve faltered, as a nation before. We have faced worthy adversaries, internal and external adversaries, and we are still, I believe, contenders, a nation capable of striving towards greatness, and maybe, someday, achieving it.
Either way, we have a lot of work to do. Our country is broken in more ways Democrat versus MAGA Republican. It was built on the blood of native Americans and slavery. I could go on, but I won’t. This is not about looking backwards.
For the past fifty years, some amazing men and women have been working to build a nation where the lyrics of – “This Land Is Your Land, This Land is Our Land” ring true.
We are a country of amazing resources and strength. We are a country that is part of a world in crisis. The biggest thing we have going for our future is us. All of us.
Regardless, of who wins on Election Day, there is a lot of work to be done.
I don’t think Canada has room for us anyway.
Christmas
December 23, 2023
I can’t speak for all the other holidays floating around this time of year, or even for anyone but me but..
If you lean into the gifts, decorate your tree to coordinate with your throw cushions, or accept the weather forecast but still scan the sky for flakes
If you buy elf on a shelf and you’re single
Invite Aunt Margerite because she invited herself…
If you are convinced the true Christmas spirit will shine thru even though you had a meltdown because your favorite store doesn’t offer gift wrap and Starbucks closed early,
It’s almost over.
Once the stores are closed,
It’ll be fine.
Better than fine.
It will be Christmas.
Melancholy, Magical, Time of the Year.
December 17, 2023
I’m writing this in my kitchen, at a table with a log centerpiece and branches studded with holly. There is scented hand soap and a bag of homemade candy by the sculptured pitcher my daughter brought home from college. We don’t have holiday napkins; stores are already displaying napkins for Valentines, so we’ll have to make beige paper squares from the coffee shop.
I’m a little bit sad. I’m writing this here, instead of posting on social media, because I don’t want my words to seem like I’m looking for sympathy or heart emojis. I’m putting thoughts to keyboard because this is how I handle whatever is weighing me down, or lifting my heart.
It’s simple. This year, somewhere along the way, I lost some friends. Not to death, to a new baby, or because of a long distance move. Not sure how or why they have faded off the radar. But they did, and I miss them.
I have tried, periodically, over the past few months to reconnect, but when you are told, many times, “let me let you go, I have to take this call,” or texts are answered days later, it’s time.
That’s part of being alive, I suppose, and having friends. Life happens and sometimes we need to clean out the people in our lives the way we let go of old shoes or spent linens. Sometimes, there just isn’t time to keep up with everyone, people need to let go of some old friends to make room for new ones, new passions, or just space.
I suppose I’ve done the same to people in my life, though I can’t recall. It’s easy, as I charge forward, juggling kids, work, gym classes, and plans, to forget about the people I must of forgotten to call back, or follow up with.
It’s the holidays, so the people I’ve loved feel especially absent, because this is the time of year when we lean towards those who are most important in our lives.
Please, don’t feel bad for me. I have a plethora of people who pick up the phone when I call, even those who hate picking up the phone- “Julie, really, you could have texted!” I have people who remember my birthday and can tell you the last time I had a cold and the first time, and hopefully, last, I fixed the dishwasher. I have friends that “like” the multitudes of dog pictures I post, even if they are all starting to look like the last one, friends who bring me books, really good books, and leave them on my doorstep, just because.
So I’m good. I have plenty of friends and people who love me. I’m just missing a few and felt like telling the world in case you are missing someone, too.
We can miss our people together until we stop missing them.
Soon enough, focus will shift to the people in my life who really want me to be there.
While I’m waiting, I will take the dogs for a walk. There is rain and wind in the forecast. All I have to do is hold out a few leashes, and soon enough, Jack will step on my foot, Chanel will steal the ball from Bernie, and I’ll be too busy looking for poop bags to fuss about some people I used to know.
Happy Holidays!
Facebook Memories and Real life Regets
October 29, 2023
Facebook memories come up almost every day when I sign on.
There are sweet moments and pictures where I bask in the joy of my 13 year old son laughing at a joke, a snow day, Katy in her costume for Irish step dancing, Sophie, zumba marathons at the Y, fall leaves at Cunningham, a birthday party at Chuckie Cheese, a Christmas morning with Nancy and Jeff, a full moon, a new song, the craft fair at church.
Some sting- Colin’s picture on his first day of football practice at the high school, just before I lost him, before I realized when I said be home by 11, he wouldn’t be.
There are posts and pictures from Quincy College pre Covid, when I’d been hired full-time, and I thought I’d found my forever home.
There are the photos of Katy, Tue, and Thanh, Andre, Robin, Parisa, Anya, Lucy, Jeff, Sophia, and Daisy, our first pet.
I set up a Facebook page called “Find Daisy Doodle”. She must have slipped out late at night and we never heard her at the door. I only mourn her when she comes up. She loved me, but was a Yorkshire, and a little mean to everyone that wasn’t me. When I got the call, at the church, that she was found, I thought she was fine. They had to spell it out over the phone, while I stepped away from a committee meeting for Religious Education.
(Out of the other people I mentioned, only Jeff is gone, and I am blessed to still be connected to everyone else. On Facebook, mostly, and that’s one of the reasons I’m here.)
It was close to Thanksgiving, I think. That day, or the next, Katy, Colin, and I trekked up to Northshore Animal Shelter. We met dogs. I fell in love with an Australian Shephard and Colin stepped in. “Mom, that dog is not great with kids. Let’s keep looking.”
We kept on. We met Sophie, part of a litter that had just come in from Georgia, found at a Walmart as the legend goes. She was mellow, just the right age, the right size, available immediately.
We brought her home, after Colin approved. Katy was there but loved all the dogs and would have agreed to any one that Colin chose.
They don’t tell you at the shelter that new dogs are mellow. They’ve just had their shots and are weary and stoned.
Within days, Sophie was a puppy who ran. She’d slip out the back door to visit the bunnies by Andrews. She’d take off at Cunningham just before it was time to go home. She found ways out of the back yard, and she was skilled at slipping her collar, on a late night dog walk.
We’d run or drive around in the car, calling her name, begging her with treats that smelled like peanut butter or Sheldon’s leftover Big Mac. Colin was the master; I think I called him home from friends’ houses to help.
But that was when it was getting close to the time where things became difficult. Maybe I sensed that asking Colin for help- with Sophie, finding the keys, making dinner, was important.
I should have asked for help more. Or less. Maybe then, he would have leaned on me and things would be different.
Katy’s at college, and Colin picks up my calls.
I wish I could connect how we got from the memories I see on my phone, and the photos we show on the mantle, to now.
How do I talk to my kids about something else than when they’re coming back home and how long they’ll stay?
How do I write look at the moon when I said that in 2014, 2018, 2020, and last month?
How can I ramble on about how I like dogs, pop music, the gym, and my family when I’ve said it over and over again?
But you know, when I look at the moon tonight, it’s just as magnificent, as it was the first time I said it, and we are just as likely not to remember it’s out there.
I forget to look at the moon. I forget to step outside and pause to look up, while the dogs pull at their leashes, and I think about what time I need to get up in the morning.
Tonight, it seems the moon is hanging over a world that feels a little more hopeless.
Maybe it’s more important than it ever was to admit that I don’t know if I did everything right.
I have more time, but I’m scared of being redundant, or old, overly optimistic, or filled with doom.
So I’ll just say- I love having Facebook memories.
I won’t have any if I I stop taking note.
The moon is fantastic tonight.
The best way to take care of yourself is to take care of yourself.
I choose to start with the moon and a phone call to someone that might have forgotten it’s out there.
Now, it’s late, but there is tomorrow, which is the greatest luxury of all
The dogs I love.
October 1, 2023
When I was lying on the sofa this morning, reading the paper, sipping coffee, I glanced up at the ceiling. A hook hangs there that Sheldon, my husband, used to hang our dog Sophia’s lactated ringers, bags that hold fluids for people and animals that are dehydrated. Every other day, he would slip the solution on the metal hook and thread an iv into Sophie’s shoulder. When we started to give her fluids at home whenever she saw the bag and the tubes, I would have to herd her to the couch, and lift her up, her body dead weight in my arms while Sheldon set up the medication. Towards, the end, she was on the couch most of the time.
She suffered from liver and kidney failure. The fluids and appetite stimulants helped her live four years after our vet suggested she had about two months left.
Mostly, she was fine. She’d roll in the grass, swim at Houghton’s, stand by the fence and bark at whoever strolled by our yard. She was fierce- a snarling and growling menace to all that approached, but if a brave soul offered her a cookie, she’d pause, eat the cookie, then go back to the business of barking.
When it became hard for her to walk down the stairs, I started a tradition so that she’d join us at bedtime. It consisted of me bringing treats down to the bedroom, while she watched, and then calling to her “Sophie, cookie party!”
Sophie liked snacks. Sometimes it took a few minutes, but after a minute or three, I’d hear her toenails on the stairs. Most of the time, she’d find the strength to jump on the bed.
(Reading this, I’m a bit horrified; I made my sick dog stagger down the stairs for treats because I slept better with her sweetly snoring at the foot of the bed? In my mind, I was convinced that was where she wanted to be, too, but in retrospect, maybe I should have let her rest. I will say that in the morning, or in the middle of the night, if she needed to go outside, Sheldon, my husband, always carried her back up the stairs.)
One night, about a year before she died, it was clear it would be unkind to make her climb down, and we had our cookie party on the landing at the top of the stairs. She gobbled peanut butter bones from my hand before sighing, and turning, to walk back to her bed by the fireplace. I texted my mother Sophie and I had just had the “last cookie party”. I barely slept.
The next morning, she was fine, and life resumed as normal until it wasn’t. In the period of a week, she faded fast and died, with her head resting on the back of my hand, while I stroked her back.
I miss her. I think she looks down at the house today, and figures she left us just in time.
We have three dogs now. The first is Chanel. My son brought her home to keep him company while on house arrest. Sophie tolerated her, and she learned from Sophia that every person who passes our fence is a potential threat and must be warned, loudly, to move along. Nelly looks like a combination of Winston Churchill and my mother-in law. Her favorite room in the house is Colin’s bedroom, even though he lives elsewhere. When life becomes too hectic, she curls up on the bed and chews on his comforter. She is fiercely determined- she loves to fetch a tennis ball but refuses to give it back. She comes when called, and will move over when I’m trying to get into bed, but in her own time. She likes to keep everyone waiting and is well aware she is worth waiting for.
Bernadette is the middle child. She is a french bulldog, short haired, bulbous eyes, huge pointy ears- she looks a bit like Yoda but less attractive. She is restless and nervous, happy to join in with Chanel to protect our home from all the dangerous babies, walkers, and other dogs who pass by. Sometimes, if I’m watching television, she’ll jump on my chest to lean over and kiss/bite my nose. Just once. She then returns to her business, which is terrorizing Chanel, the cat, Sheldon, a piece of cardboard, whatever has landed on her radar. Balloons, her own reflection, other dogs outside the car window, and the blender, all send her into hysterical fits of barking to the point where I am afraid she’s going to have convulsions. But it passes. We no longer allow balloons in the house, though.
Last, definitely last, there is Jack. He is only five months old, so I’m still getting to know him. He doesn’t follow Chanel and Bernadette outside every time a bird flies by or someone gets out the car across the street. He feels they are doing a fine job protecting our home. He’s happiest napping, in his crate, in front of the television, or in my lap on the way to work. Like all puppies, he likes to chew things, but when I say “Jack, give it back, ” he returns whatever his current object to my feet, unless it’s food or something he considers food, which could be Q-tip or a cereal box. Then, it’s a bit of a challenge, and sometimes he wins. This exchange is quite taxing for the little guy, so most of the time, after I’ve confiscated something, he goes to sleep. His disinterest in exercise and incredible appetite are probably why he looks more like a meatloaf every day.
All three of them sleep with us, though arrangements become complicated in the middle of the night, when Chanel decides it’s too warm under the covers or Jack takes an interest in chewing on Bernadette’s tail.
Before we turn out the light, as soon as everyone, human and canine, has found their spot, we have our cookie party. I’m trying to teach them tricks, but I’ve found bedtime isn’t the right time for training.
It’s a party, after all. Right, Sophie?
Mine is a nest that is empty, but with dogs.
September 16, 2023
I’ve gotten used to the quiet without Colin or Kate; my nineteen year old and twenty three year old have both left for the summer, one for school, one for good, maybe.
I don’t automatically shout at the speaker to play the radio when I walk in the door.
I don’t feel like anything or anyone is missing when I’m home unless Sheldon has the dogs out for a walk.
I miss life ten years ago, until I remember conversations about homework, clothes on the stairs, the phone calls from school.
Then, on the ride to work, Facebook memories turn up on my phone, which I’m staring at because it’s too early for conversation. (Social media is just the right amount of human engagement before 8 am. I can quietly judge people and then step away before I’m disgusted I’m judging people.)
I want time to move backwards. I want to yell out to the adults, standing at the bus stop-“enjoy all of this. It will pass, they will drive, and then they will drive away.”
I spot tired parents, dressed for work parents, and parents who look happy to be there, who know what I know now and didn’t know then, even a little.
I don’t remember the last time I walked Katy to the bus. One day, I was holding her hand and squinting my eyes and the next, she was walking with friends.
It is fall, and I’m settling into the season. I like wearing slippers and hearing the leaves crackle under my feet while I walk in the woods, I won’t miss mud or mosquitos.
As long as no one tries to make me drink a pumpkin spice latte, I’ll be fine.
Seasons change. I have changed.
I wish I knew then what I know now, but at least I’ve learned something along the way.
I’d really like to tell you
September 16, 2023
Tonight, I’d like to tell you that sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice when I left Quincy College.
I’d love to describe what it’s like at my new job, at Massachusetts College of Pharmacy and Health Science, how it feels to have an office, with a door, and that sunflowers became my favorite flowers when I found them on my desk that first day.
I want to tell you about this summer- how awesome it was to spend time with Kate, without the shadow of Colin, in the next room or just upstairs, barking into the phone or playing video games with the volume all the way up. He was at home for a year and a half, on house arrest, because someone found a large quantity of pot in his apartment.
Since he’s been gone, I text him a few times a week. I answer his calls, even if I’m in the shower or with a student.
I set out today with my friend Alison for a final dip at Nantasket, even though the forecast called for scattered showers. When the downpour started, we both turned around and headed to Derby Street, for some mediocre mussels and a decent cucumber Margarita.
I’m grateful I had time with Alison, she was one of my best friends at QC. I like the sweater I bought at Kohls. I am coming to terms that we probably won’t go to the beach again until next year, unless it’s to watch the dogs play in the water, while we shiver on the boardwalk and wonder if summer will ever come around again.
I’d like to share what it feels like to throw my body in front of a wave and be lifted for a second or two before landing, sometimes on my feet, sometimes on my ass, when it’s done. It takes a long, long time to get used to water temperatures of 58 to 65 degrees. It can take a half an hour, at least ,with the numb all the way up my body until, slowly, my toes and my knees wake, my muscles unclench. The water feels cold and glorious, but it takes time and patience. A person shouldn’t go to the beach in Massachusetts if they are on tight schedule, unless they usually swim in Maine, where the water is much colder. I liked thinking about swimming in the ocean, tonight, while I wrote this.
It amazes me what me body and soul can get used to, when I take my time. This can be both glorious and dangerous, if you think about it.
The summer, we spent a lot of time at the beach, walking the dogs, or putting off things that need to be done.
Last week, I made a list-
Our dishwasher leaks, the ice maker is on strike, and both our cars have check engine lights blazing, 80 percent of the time.
My laptop won’t connect to the internet. My watch won’t connect to my phone.
The new espresso machine makes lousy espresso.
I just spent a half an hour in the park after dark because the dogs really needed the space and the cool night air.
It’s been hot. Or I’m cold, in a house or an office with the air conditioner dripping rivers outside the window and frost from the vents.
There has not been much time for reflection or even group exercise classes.
But there is enough for yoga in the living room, with Chanel climbing my leg Bernadette sprawling under my plank, and Jack climbing Chanel.
There is enough time for phone calls to the people I love who are far, and a walk or a meal with the people I love who are close.
There is time for sleep, and a few minutes of a an ancient Pat Conroy novel just before.
There will be time, soon enough, to deal with the ice maker, the Buick, and the lack of lattes. My priorities are different than they used to be.
I’m looking forward to tomorrow, and tomorrow is Monday, so I’d say my life is pretty damn good.
This is the summer I gave up on my hair.
July 18, 2023
This summer, I am done with work every at 4 pm every day for the summer, (thank you, Quincy College). It’s been hot as hell lately, most days, so most days, I am climbing down the steps into the pool by 4:45 and slipping under the rope and inside the lap lane by 4:47.
My backstroke meanders. My freestyle is fast, especially when I remember to kick my legs. I don’t practice breaststroke anymore; it feels too much like the the stroke of someone who doesn’t want to get her face wet. Last year, I practiced butterfly. Well done, it is glorious to watch, and if continued for any period of time, it left me breathless.
This year, I keep it simple. I crawl. I float. I backstroke. I dive.
When I get tired, I pull myself out and slather deep conditioner onto my hair. Then I rinse off in the outdoor shower. Sometimes, there is a tiny group of six year old girls watching me shower because a lifeguard asked them to give me a turn. The shower is very popular with first grade girls.
I have a pair of goggles that keeps all the water out, and I cherish them as much as my fancy headphones.
I only have one swimsuit; it is two pieces that do not match. But the top piece is blue, and bottoms are black, and I don’t think anyone has noticed. I do spend most of my time underwater.
There have been quite a few changes in my life these past years; I am now recognizing this trend will continue, even speed up, in the near and distant future.
I find comfort knowing this is not particular to me; it seems everyone I know is experiencing roughly the same thing, just different circumstances-different levels and combinations of grief, joy, and willingness to adapt to, for lack of a better term, the increasing speed of life
I’m not sure I could adapt to life without swimming in Cunningham Pool, most days at 445.
But, I do.
Every year, it closes mid August so the lifeguards can go back to college.
I sign up for boot-camps and glory in the fall colors while walking Bernadette and Chanel, in the woods just behind an empty Cunningham Pool.
This was the first summer, I didn’t bother to blow dry my hair after dinner, even on weeknights.
I decided summer evenings could be better spent walking the dogs after sunset, going out for ice cream with Katy, heading to bed early, with a book, or to the sofa, to watch Ted Lasso, for the second time, with my husband, (it’s his first, and I think I’m hoping some of Ted’s optimism will rub off).
It’s hasn’t, yet anyway. But it’s only July 17th, and there’s time for us all.
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.
julierichmond 