Swimming

We loved to sit on our front porch in pedal pushers.

I like countdowns. Especially ones that lead up to a happy event or special occasion. Like Christmas. The birth of a child. A wedding. On New Year’s Eve I like to watch the ball drop in Times Square. All that glittery optimism and brilliant expectations for the year ahead. A fresh new start in ten New York seconds. Which could be 11 or 12 in the rest of the world given the speed with which a New York second passes. Regardless, it’s out with the old. In with the new. A reason to celebrate.

Even though it’s been decades since I was in school, one of my favorite countdowns still remains that to the start of summer vacation. There’s nothing else quite like it. For me, it even trumps counting the days until Christmas. Despite all the caroling and egg nog drinking. There’s no strings attached. Just easy breezy eagerness. And the joy of looking forward to lingering carefree days and laid-back leisure time.

Gretchen Rubin in her marvelous book “The Happiness Project” talks about the four stages of happiness, with the first one being anticipation. This notion really resonates with me. Because it goes hand in glove with countdowns. As I am counting down, I am also anticipating and picturing that some kind of wonderful about to take place. This in turn releases a bucketful of endorphins. And those make me grin like a five year old coveting an ice cream cone covered in sprinkles.

Little back story. The last month of school was both terrific and torturous. By June in Northwestern Ontario, summer had fully arrived. No longer lurking around the corner. It’s presence was fully felt. From the early morning dew to the humidity that blanketed everything long after the sun had set. The heat was relentless. Refusing to retreat. Even in the darkest hours under a cheddar colored moon. It was ever present. And after a long cold winter, we welcomed it with open windows and screens on our doors.

This time was torturous because no one wanted to be there. Not even the teachers. Everything you really needed to know was already behind you. If a teacher was bold enough to introduce something new, no one was listening. We were a clowder of cats. Completely disinterested. We may have seen her lips moving but we heard nothing. Attention spans were short. And the intake valve to our brains even shorter. There was no way anything education related was crossing the threshold to our brains. Being inside was unbearable. Being inside a classroom even worse. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. The flowers were blooming. We were all itching to get outdoors and be a part of it.

The fantastic part of that last month was the relaxed easy-going attitude of everyone. The teachers did their part. Classroom windows were flung open wide to allow summer in. The sweet smell of heat infused with intense humidity, the divine scent of freshly mowed lawns and ubiquitous odor of freshly tarred roads settled over our desks, the blackboard, the books, the collection of potted pea plants on the windowsill. It was a potent elixir that made us all positively giddy with happiness.

I like to see the world upside down and with a split.

In elementary school it was also the month of outdoor gym classes. Track and field events. Baseball games. Red white and blue hard rubber balls bounced and boinged off sun drenched brick walls. Hula hoops in neon colors sashayed around tiny waists. White chalk hopscotch art filled the sidewalks. Cartwheels. Headstands. Skipping ropes and Double Dutch. Play of all sorts was extended. And clothes were lessened. Bare legs and bare arms showing off the beginnings of suntans. Sandals and rubber flip flops. Pony tales and new summer haircuts.

In high school every opportunity to be outside was embraced. It was a time to start working on the tan. The goal was to be beach-ready when the final bell tolled. Lazy lunches and spare classes were spent languishing on the grass. P.E. classes were all about the outdoors. It was track and field season and whether you liked it or not you were out there. Running or dragging your butt around the track. Horse laughing with your friends. Good nature teasing. Disgusted by the sweating. Complaining at every turn. But secretly loving every moment.

Breakfast at one of the campsites on our Circle Route trip.

I don’t think Ma and The Old Man counted down the days until my school year ended. But they too welcomed the lazy hazy crazy days of summer. Relished the longer days and warm evenings. This meant more time for The Old Man to tend to his vegetable garden. Or umpire Little League games after supper. More time for Ma to pause and relax with a cup of tea. Go for walks or simply watch us kids play from our front porch stoop.

We weren’t big travelers. Especially going anywhere that required a plane, train or boat. But we did have an automobile. A Ford. This was all we needed to get away. The Old Man got two weeks off in the summer which was a big deal back then. During that time we’d often go camping or drive down to Duluth for a few days of shopping and sightseeing. One time we went as far as Minneapolis. And another time we drove and tented our way around Lake Superior. Doing the Circle Route was considered quite the adventure to our family. I’ll never forget the thrill of traveling the Soo Locks. Another favorite summer pastime was driving to Sibley Park, Boulevard Lake or Chippewa for a Sunday afternoon picnic and swim. Oh the picnics. How we loved those. Some planned and some spontaneous. On muggy evenings, Ma would pack up a basket of food and we would drive to Boulevard to cool down and have dinner. Who needed a pool or a summer cottage when one of the best places to swim and hang out was just twenty minutes from our house. We were blessed.

It’s been said that the family that prays together stays together. That could very well be true. But I also think that the family that plays together stays together. At least that seemed to be the case for ours. Especially in the summertime. Everyone just seemed to get along better. A bit like the way we were around Christmas time. Only the rosy glow lingered. For two solid months our spirits were raised and uplifted. Happiness hovered in the clear blue skies over Lake Superior. Washed over us in Boulevard Lake. Splashed us from behind at Sibley. Shone over the Sleeping Giant with a big yellow smile. Echoed across Ouimet Canyon. Shouted from the top of Mount McKay. And giggled inside a tent pitched in the backyard at 204.

It’s June and summer beckons. Calls me back to that place. I count down.

Ma always on the lookout at Sibley Park.

I can’t swim. But I do like the water – to an extent. If my body were a map, my breast bone would be the dividing line. Like the equator. That’s the border between fear and faith. It’s the big divide where comfort zone meets terror. But I do love the beach and pretty much everything about it.

Little back story. I came by my fear of the water honestly. Ma passed it onto me along with a fear of driving, dark streets at night, wild animals and dirty underwear. I’m not sure of the origin of Ma’s fears. Certainly not her own mother, since she died when Ma was three. Regardless, Ma was not a big fan of aqueous immersions.

The way Ma expressed this fear was both lamentable and exasperating. It went something like this. It’s a beautiful sunny day. We’re at a beach. One of three – Chippewa Park, Boulevard Lake or Sibley Park. Each had noteworthy characteristics that I loved. Chippewa had an amusement park of sorts (merry-go-round) and a zoo (polar bears in dirty cement pits) and a long shallow seductive shore. Boulevard was in town, easy to get to by bus, had a great concession booth and comfortable grassy shoreline. Sibley was an hours drive from town, was situated on the Sleeping Giant (which in itself was irresistible enough), had a hot sandy beach and freezing cold water (which made me giggle and shiver upon initial entry.)

As this story unfolds, we are now at the beach. I’m in my bathing suit, Ma’s in her capris and The Old Man is jauntily attired in slacks and a short sleeved cotton shirt. Usually I have at least one friend with me. Most often it is D from across the street. She’s one of five C-kids and I am a devotee of this wonderful crazy mixed up dysfunctional family. We’re all appropriately attired, a blanket is laid out on the sand, towels and flip flops are tossed carelessly about and delicious snacks that Ma has packed are set out carefully on the blanket. (If we’re at Sibley Park a picnic lunch will also be included in the day’s fare.) D and I head down to the water and everything is copacetic. Except it isn’t. Already I feel Ma’s tension. It permeates from her body like a noxious over-powering perfume. Just as our toes touch the water’s edge I hear her calling. “Not too deep now!” she cries. “No further than your knees.” Knees? Are you kidding? So I call back, “Ma, you can’t swim in knee-deep water!” “Okay, then no deeper than your waist,” she replies. Waist? Really? So D and I wade out to where waist meets water. And Ma hollers, “Far enough!” Are you kidding? Apparently not.

Compliantly, D and I find our little piece of liquid splendor somewhere between knee deep and waist high. And we frolic. And splash. And squeal. We dog paddle. And float on our backs. We blow bubbles with our faces under water. The entire time, Ma’s worried anxious eyes are upon us. I can feel her held breath. Her pounding heart. But she doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. Except when she thinks we’ve strayed too deep. Or for that one millisecond when she loses sight. We’ve drifted behind the fat kid floating in the ten-foot tractor tube. And we’re gone. Ma calls my name. I can hear the edge of hysteria in her voice. I emerge from behind the tractor tube boy. Safe. I wave reassuringly. And all is well.

As a result of all that fretful smothering by the shore, I never really learned how to swim. I spent much of my time reassuring Ma that I was indeed alive and still breathing. But also, another thing happened. I grew fearful too. Maybe it was dangerous. After all, we heard those tragic stories of kids who drowned, leaving in their wake broken-hearted devastated parents. Not just in lakes either. But in creeks. And bathtubs. Mud puddles even. Water was a heinous loathsome devourer of little children.

Of course, deep inside the well of Ma’s fear of water was just the plain and simple fear of loss itself. Her losses were so great. And they came so early. I don’t blame her for wanting to hang on and protect those who were most dear to her. To somehow hold safe, the small. And the fragile. The vulnerable. Prevent them from walking into the deep. And never return.

I don’t recall Ma ever going into the water. Even her bath water was shallow. I do have one lovely ancient black and white photo of her in a lake. It looks like she is up to her neck but apparently as the family story goes, that was all trickery. The water was no deeper than her waist. Still the end result was one beautiful photo. Of one beautiful, frightened courageous woman.

All this fear and anxiety aside, I still have only the fondest memories of summers growing up. Despite her fears, she faithfully took me and my friends to the beach. And through the years, I learned that there are many things to do by the water’s edge that are equally entertaining as swimming. Adventures to be sought. Imagination to be awakened. Treasures to be hunted. Oh the natural beauty of polished pieces of glass. The Noxzema blue bits were my favorites. Broken shells and hunks of gnarly driftwood. Exotic micro creatures hiding under rocks. Sand castles and suburban homes. Catching miniature fish in yellow plastic pails. The tickle of hot sand as it sifts through your toes. The music of waves rushing to shore. The sounds of laughter and glee. The smell of Coppertone. And hot dogs. French fries and onion rings. And the glorious sun high in the large blue sky roasting our skin and filling our hearts with warmth. And the promise of forever. These were the gifts that Ma provided. This was the trade-off.

Magic. And mystery. And wonder. All this in place of the butterfly kick and the front crawl. But I have learned to swim in other ways. I know the fine art of survival. And the dance of intent. The call of the courageous. I know when to hold up my head and squint into the sunlight.

I wrote a song called Sibley Park. It was inspired by my summers spent there with Ma. Here are the lyrics. It’s in the key of C. Like much of my life.

We went to Sibley Park
And we swam in the coldest part
We took pictures of the three of us
Just you and me and Gus

The sand was beige and hot
And my suit was full of polka dots
We took pictures of the three of us
Just you and me and Gus

We ate Oh Henry bars
And you dove off my freckled arms
We took pictures of the three of us
Just you and me and Gus

Our moms sat in the shade
As we swam and they drank lemonade
They took pictures of the three of us
Just you and me and Gus

Gus barked and chased a stick
As he raced and he did dog tricks
We took pictures of the three of us
Just you and me and Gus

I went to Sibley Park
Where we swam in the coldest part
I kept pictures of the three of us
Just you and me and Gus

I wonder where you are
You recall the way we were before
When we took pictures of the three of us
Just you and me and Gus.

My Thing About God

Diaries of The Breadman's Daughter.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Countdown to Summer Vacation.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Life is a Beach.