My Summer Place

Another 90 degree summer day means another day at Grandma’s house in Bristol, Indiana. More specifically, the day means hours upon hours of play in the old concrete, kidney shaped swimming pool. Through the course of the day, I challenge my sister to a dive-off, pretend I am a doctor trying to purify a giant vat of acid, and use the same Snoopy life vest my mother used to keep myself from drowning while playing like a big boy in the deep end. In this pool I have seen many stages of my own development: from getting my toes wet for the very first time with Grandpa at the age of 1, to using water wings on my own, to learning to dive. This place is where I could be anything I wanted to be without being judged. Imagination had an unrestricted reign, and hours ran away faster than the ripples caused by my multiple cannon ball dives. The swimming pool holds more memories of my childhood than any other place. It pains me to no end that my children will never be able to experience that pool in the way I, my sister, my mother, my aunts, and my cousins all have since its installment in 1968.

My grandfather, who passed away in 1994 of colon cancer, installed the pool so that his youngest daughter (my mother) could have a safe place to play with her friends. Some may feel that a pool is certainly not safe, and in some respects I would agree. In fact, this very pool where I spent the majority of my summer days until I was 12 caused my Uncle John to break his arm (after trying to go down the slide standing straight up), saw the near drowning of a distant family member at a reunion, and cut my feet (due to the raised concrete) more times than I can count. Despite all this, my mother states that the pool became the center piece of my family. No matter what dispute may have been going on, time passed in the pool had a mythical quality. The battles of everyday life in the outside world had no grounds in this place. A hot temper could be easily doused by the splash of a playing child. This is what made the swimming pool such a magical place in my early life.

Though my grandmother is still alive today, she is currently losing a long battle with Alzheimer’s disease. Because of this, my family was forced to put her in an assisted living facility and sell the property that has always been “Grandma’s House.” She remembers virtually nothing about what happened 3 minutes ago, but Grandma still has vast memories of the swimming pool. I am not allowed to bring the house up in conversation since she does not know the house has been sold, but in my observations of conversations between her and my mother, she constantly brings up the pool. She talks about needing to drain it and get it repainted; she mentions the need of installing a new diving board; and she even says she cannot wait until the summer comes so she can help the kids restock the pool toys. All of these activities are things we did together to get ready for the new swim season, and though I have not participated in these activities for nearly six years, the memories are still strong. Even a woman whose mind is slowly slipping away still has vivid memories of this special place. That alone should be a tribute to the swimming pool’s lasting place in the lore of my family.

The sun sets on another perfect day at the pool, and I am forced by my mom to finally get out and dry off. The air has cooled considerably since we arrived around noon, and I actually shiver in my Ninja Turtles towel. Grandpa sees my shivering and uses his large, strong hands to warm me up with friction. He then picks me up and threatens to throw me back in the pool, and I protest through giggles and screams until he puts me down. I wish now that he never would have put me down. Perhaps then I could have shared this special place with my future family. Soon the pool will be filled in with the very same concrete that gave it life and it will pass from Grandma’s House as a physical place forever. But it will never lose its place in my memories. My sister’s memories. My mom’s memories. Or even those of my grandma.