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.
I Miss Smoking Sometimes
July 19, 2013
In the course of my life, I’ve made some really bad choices. As a matter of fact, one of my chosen topics-to-ponder of late is just how many of these bad choices, and in how much detail, do I share with my kids. Should I be a walking, talking, cautionary tale, or should I tell stories about a dear friend of mine from high school. That died a horrible, painful death.
I’m still working that out, and I will let you know what I decide. That is, unless they peel themselves away from IFunny and Instagram and read my blog. In which case, it’s a mute point.
I don’t miss standing in line for the bathroom, or checking my nose in the mirror before heading out. I don’t miss long, intense conversations about bad things that happened in high school, endless Scrabble games, or racing to the liquor store at 10:45, (I’ve spent a good part of my life in Massachusetts, liquor stores close at 11.)
I’ve never been able to figure out why I clung to those things for so long. For a little while, it was fun. We felt like we were all part of an inside joke, had stumbled on a way to feel perpetually like a member of the cool crowd. We thought our conversations were unique, our observations hysterical, our taste in clothes and restaurants and drinks and clubs and friends were impeccable.
Looking back, I suppose clothes looked good because all I’d have for dinner was three bites before I got distracted by another trip to the ladies room. Restaurants were amazing because I was only nibbling on food until I could get up and use the ladies room again. Drinks were amazing because they got me drunk, or took the edge off, depending on where I was in the evening. And friends were anyone and everyone that were doing the same stupid things that I was.
So, it’s established, I don’t miss those days. But sometimes, I miss the cigarettes. The standing outside with a stranger. The first puff, the curl of smoke and the smell of sulphur. The way that first drag established the end of a meal. The end of a day. The end of really good sex. Regret, joy, exhaustion… all of these seemed to be well celebrated with a lit Marlboro, a few minutes, and a deep couple of drags.
Now at the end of a day, or at the end of a meal, I go to the pool. We live in a small town, right outside of Boston. There is a huge outdoor pool about a mile away from our home.At 6:30 most nights, I head over. Some nights I bring my daughter. Tonight, I went by myself.
I am probably the only adult in my age group that visits Cunningham Pool without trailing behind a few kids. I know the man at the gate that checks the tags. He hasn’t asked for mine in about five years. Which is good, because I put them away as souvenirs the first day I pick them up.
I smile, make brief conversation about how hot, cold, humid or rainy it’s been. He agrees. We decide that tomorrow it will be more of the same.
Then I step inside. I peel off my clothes, I always wear my swim suit underneath. I drop them on top of my cell phone, on top of my gym bag, on top of my purse. I creep into the water, down the kiddie stairs in the shallow end. I ignore the cute babies. Most of the time, I love cute babies, but at the pool, it’s best not to think about them.
Then I swim. I slip down the length of the pool to the lap lane. First lap, I dolphin dive. I follow the floor of the pool, parallel to the bottom. I look at the pine needles and elastics. I wiggle my stomach and flop my legs like a novice mermaid. I come up, I gulp air, I dive down again. Next lap is free style. I sprint. I stretch my arms long, out of their sockets, I reach far like my coach taught me thirty some years ago. I take few breaths, I slid thru the water like a blade, or a shark, or a competitor. Next lap is back stroke. I leave my goggles on, they are cloudy, but I can make out the sun falling down, and the pine branches above. I pull hard.
I rotate the strokes. I go fast, mostly, except when I’m playing little mermaid under the water. I swim for about an hour, straight thru the adult swim, until about fifteen minutes before the pool closes. Then, I make my way thru the shallow part of the pool, to the stairs. I step out of the water I peel my goggles of my face. I pull the bottoms of my swim suit back to where they belong. I smile at the cute babies. I say hello to the moms I know, and nod at the moms I don’t . I look at the pregnant women with a mixture of awe, recognition and on really hot days, an expression that probably says “thank god I’m done with that.”
I don’t know how I can swim so long, and so fast when I consider all of the horrible things I’ve done to my body over the years. Especially the smoking. I don’t know how I can swim the length of the pool without taking a breath when I consider that for a lifetime my favorite thing to do was to fill my lungs with smoke, hold it like a gift, and then blow it away.
But I do know when I look back on these days, it will be with the knowledge that these days, and these choices are not mistakes.
I can tell my children that truth, and maybe that will hold them for a while.
julierichmond 