Floating Through Summer
I grew up in a development called Green Meadow Point where every street, court, road included either the word “green,” “wood,” “meadow,” “view” or a combination thereof.
Greenview intersected with Greenleaf. Greenwood ran into Meadowview. Meadow Green was just off Green Meadow. Drivers not familiar with the neighborhood would get woefully lost because all the road signs looked basically the same. I lived there for twenty years and provided hundreds of incorrect directions to lost souls.
But I knew where the pool was.
Most summer mornings, my brother, sister, and neighbors would mount bicycles and pedal past brick ranch houses, manicured lawns and free roaming dogs that developed an appetite for youth on two wheels and make our way to Green Meadow Point Pool. Our bikes were basic, gearless but colorful. Trusty steeds that never let us down. Boy bikes sported banana seats; girl bikes were accessorized with baskets or pink and purple tassels affixed to handlebars ends. The faster they rode, the more they sparkled – and so did the girls.
We’d park out bikes out front. Back then, there wasn’t a need to lock them to racks or to the chain link fence that surrounded the pool. No one dared steal a bike — one of the unwritten codes of suburban life in the 1970’s.
Our neighborhood pool was basic. The main pool was rectangle shaped; about 25-yard-longs by ten yards wide. At its deep end was a single diving board, and the shallow end featured a curved fiberglass slide about six feet tall. We used to launch ourselves off it in varying positions sometimes in tandem. In back and near the railroad tracks was a small kiddie pool, ankle deep and always warm thanks to “contributions” of wading toddlers. A main building about the size of a double wide housed pool equipment, bathrooms, two vending machines and a small desk for Coach Anderson, the only lifeguard I remember.
I don’t think Coach Anderson owned a pair of long pants.
During the school year, he was a gym teacher at the local high school where he wore dark blue, polyester coach’s shorts and either a white or gold short sleeve shirt day in and day out. Come summer, he sported a faded pith helmet and a caramel tan. He walked like John Wayne, but in flip flops. A whistle was his only year-round fashion accessory. When he was disciplining students or swimmers his voice would get high, almost Barney Fife-like, which was odd coming from a man who was likely six foot, 210 pounds soaking wet.
Days at the pool were spent playing games like Marco-polo, sharks and minnows or submarine depth charge. While the first two are still popular, submarine depth charge would not be allowed today.
Ever.
Basically, one person would crouch into a cannonball position at the end of the diving board while others swam back and forth below. This human depth charge would then time his or her drop to land smack dab on top of another swimmer. The stricken swimmer would then be “out,” and the game would continue until there were no more targets or until someone was seriously injured.
On rare occasions, we rested by the pool. Sometimes we ate bologna or peanut butter sandwiches from paper bags. We drank grape soda or Fresca and occasionally bought a pack of nabs from the machine. Waiting thirty minutes after eating before jumping back in the water wasn’t a thing. And getting a tan wasn’t something we set out to do, it was merely a byproduct of where we were –how we spent these celebrated summer days. Sunscreen was invented yet, so our shoulders burned, and our noses peeled. Chlorine from the pool gave our hair green highlights and bloodshot eyes. We were a peculiar looking bunch but always smiling or laughing.
At day’s end, we’d drape our wet towels around our shoulders, grab our bikes and head home. The cool afternoon air and the breeze from pedaling gave us goosebumps and caused our hair to tangle. One by one, friends would peel off from the pack head up driveways. Because there’s no place like home. And there’s no place like the pool.
Marco…