Snow Day Summer Nostalgia (I wish I was swimming.)
January 25, 2026
We moved to our tiny town just outside of Boston mostly because of the community pool. We were driving around aimlessly- Katy was about six months, Colin three- killing time until we could put the kids down for a nap, or waiting for them to fall asleep in the car.
On the left, I spied a huge, bright blue, inground pool, surrounded by pine trees, down a small hill. My husband turned into the parking lot; he and I both got out of the car and looked down. The pool was about the size of a high school gym. There was a dock on one end, lap lanes at the other, and a large c shape of shallow water on the other side of what looked like the deep end.
Kids were jumping off the dock, families were sprawled on blankets and beach chairs. All around the edges, people of all ages and sizes were dangling their feet into the blue.
At the time, we were living in Dorchester, which is right on the harbor, but being so close to the city, it wasn’t really sandcastle central then, and low tide on the local spot smelled more like dead fish than suntan lotion and salt air.
It seemed like an oasis, in the middle of summer, with two sweaty small children that started crying as soon as we hopped out of the car. I sent Sheldon down to check if we needed a membership, or could just purchase a day pass.
He came back, looking sweatier for climbing the hill and knowing he was going to disappoint me- “the pool is only for Milton residents”.
And so we moved to Milton.
When Colin was four and Katy was two, we’d stuff them into their swimsuits, and bring them over to Cunningham every day, from late June until mid August, when the lifeguards went back to college, and the pool closed for the season. By mid August, in New England, night starts to fall by seven, when the pool hours end and the air feels like September, sweater weather.
Once, Colin was bit by a snake in the creek on the other side of the fence. The police officer who was summoned by a lifeguard said it looked like the snake had peed on his arm. He whispered this to me, out of Colin’s earshot.
Katy found a frog under the dock once. It took six lifeguards, with a circle of fifty wondrous children watching, to pry the shiny, green critter from under the wooden slats. I’m sure it was a very exciting day in his frog life.
My memories of Cunningham with the kids are brief; they only came along about five summers before declaring “babies pee in that pool, it’s grooosssss!”
I never stopped. For years, the first day it opens, I’m waiting at the gate for the evening swim, starts at five pm and lasts until seven. I bring a book, a water bottle, a large fluffy towel, and my favorite swim goggles.
I go to same spot, all the way down at the end, on the side with the showers, to a bench right next to a lifeguard chair. I drop my bag, peel off my dress, and put my sandals on top of my stuff. I put my goggles on, adjust the straps, and walk down to the stairs, where I step in, stair by stair, until I’m ready to dive under the ropes, and swim in the lap lane.
Sometimes it’s empty. Sometimes I have to pause for kids playing tag, or chasing a tennis ball. Some people like to walk back and forth, or use kickboards.
I like it best when I have a whole lane to myself. My favorite stroke, most nights, is backstroke, and I don’t want to hit anyone. Quite often, I get distracted, and my fingers slam into the edge of the pool. But it’s lovely to stroll in water, floating, watching the clouds, listening to kids, and parents, the slap of the edge of my hand through the water, the sound of my breath.
As I write this, there is a blizzard outside. There is an ice storm in South Carolina and an ICE storm in Minnesota that’s coming to Maine.
I wish I was at Cunningham Pool, and it was the beginning of June, and the light would stay until long after seven. I wish it was hot as hell, and I was cool inside the blue, and contented.
But I’m on the sofa, with dogs and pieces of the Sunday Globe. Our pellet stove is full, and there is an extra bag by the desk. The fridge is stocked with apples and cheese, chicken thighs and a slab of beef for the slow cooker. There is a bottle of good wine on the counter, and the corkscrew is next to it, in case we lose power, and I want to get tipsy and fall asleep right after dinner.
Cunningham and summertime will be here soon enough. Life is too short to fast forward through the chilly patches.
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.
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.
This might be helpful because I’ve been there, and there too.
September 4, 2018
I drove up to Milford, NH, yesterday to get a last taste of summer with my daughter. And her friend, (Because offering to let her bring a friend just makes everything easier. And she’s got really cool friends.)
The balloons were beautiful. The food was great. There were henna tattoos, bouncy houses, beer tents, tethered rides into colorful baskets, lines as long as the dmv at lunchtime, but much friendlier, handmade jewelry, live music, a summertime sunset, and a sense of summertime bliss.
No work in the morning. No bedtime. Fried oreos.
Here’s the thing.
Summertime is going to be over. in late September, I think. Last night is a million hours ago, and Friday at 4, when the weekend began, is a century away.
Kids will attend their first day of school, be sent away to their first sleep away camp, leave for college, if we are lucky.
One day, I realized I hadn’t pushed them on the swing in three years.
One day, you’ll realize their room doesn’t smell like their room.
The seasons don’t matter. The first day, the last day, they are milestones for facebook and family and reminders that time is passing, even if your sixteen year old has only eaten macaroni and cheese since he was three.
Not everyone has children.
There is still the first grey hair, the first ma’am or sir, the serious conversation about final plans. Menopause. Midlife. Mortality.
The weather is just a backdrop.
Don’t only live summer between June and August.
Fresh starts don’t only happen in September. Or a new beginning in spring.
All that matters is the people we choose, the people that choose us, and how we choose to spend the time that we have.
FYI, , if your kid asks for a push on the swing, give them a push. Take your time.
If you have to choose between Game of Thrones, and a conversation with your best friend, have the talk. Most shows are available on demand or can be found at at the local library. Even if you are feeling pressure from your well meaning, obsessed co-workers to watch a show, insist on meaningful dialogue. As a matter a fact, forget the best friend, call those television obsessed colleagues, and share every detail of your day. And your dreams. Then ask for their advice about redecorating your attic. Don’t let them off the phone until it’s dead.
Which brings me back-
The night sky, every day of the year, has something to tell you,
So does the sun first thing in the morning,
or whenever you wake.
I didn’t need to go to Balloon Festival with Chrs to appreciate summertime, or to connect with my daughter.
But I’m glad that l did.
julierichmond 