WAITING FOR SUMMER

I miss our pool.

When we built our house in San Antonio, we put in a pool.  It wasn’t part of the plan.  It wasn’t even a plan for “some day.”  But somehow, we ended up with one. 

I wanted a water feature.  I wanted the calming tinkle-tinkle-tinkle of a gentle fountain.  So we met with the guy doing the patio and the landscaping to discuss a water feature.  The conversation grew grander and suddenly, for just a few dollars more, we were envisioning a swimming pool in our new backyard.

I agonized over this decision, even after it was made.  I especially feared we wouldn’t use it enough to warrant the addition, especially since I can’t swim – never have.  I float all right.  I enjoy getting wet.  That’s about it.  It seemed an outrageous extravagance, but if there was ever a city to have a pool in, San Antonio seemed to be it.

Even the prospect of caring for the pool didn’t sway us.  Immediately, we signed up for Pool School.  Our pool company would send someone to our home to teach us how to care for our pool. 

When we did our final walk-through of the new house, we ambled from room to room, making notes for the builder of what needed to be done yet and mental notes of what piece of furniture would go where.  When we went through the back door and gazed at the backyard that had been all theory until then, I was stunned.  The pool was lovely - three graceful arcs, hitting the water with gentle plops; the flagstone surround; the lush plantings; the alluring turquoise surface.

The pool became salvation during the weeks while we waited for our belongings.  We had no television, no games, no books, not even clothes to hang in the closets; but, we were amused by the pool.  John built boats out of milk jugs.  We floated and smiled (when smiles were hard to come by.)

We arranged for Pool School.  My sister-in-law Carla teased me about the pool boy who would be our instructor.  She winked about Speedos and 6-pack abs.  I waited with breathy anticipation for the arrival of the pool master, my pencil and paper at the ready.  Tom was…unexpected.  Tom was probably 60 years old and looked 80.  His white hair stood out from his head in wild tufts.  His company-issued shirt was unbuttoned, exposing a generous gut hanging over the waist of his jeans.  He pulled the shirt open further to show me the scar from his quadruple bypass, because, as Tom contends, “those cigarettes and tortillas will kill ‘ya.”  (Personally, I think tortillas are getting a bad rap, but I didn’t debate it with Tom.)  He wiped his heavily-perspiring forehead with a red bandana, as he puttered around our pool, muttering that “any idiot could take care of a pool.”  As we didn’t consider ourselves idiots, it became our mission to learn the ropes; however, I couldn’t seem to put pen to paper.  No notes appeared on the pad.  Instead, I gawked at Tom. 

He complained about replacing his cell phone every couple of months, because the phones kept falling into pools.  This comment was made as he slipped his current phone into the breast pocket of his shirt and bent over the pool to pull the Polaris from its depths.  I held my breath; sure another phone was on its way into the brink.  When Tom finally made his departure, we watched him go with dropped jaws, berating one another in quiet tones for not having taken a photo of this character.  (I hope my description does him justice.)

Despite dubious care instruction, we've managed to maintain and enjoy the pool.  Now we miss it.

Like the rest of the country, San Antonio is having the coldest winter in recent history.  Too cool for a dip.  But gentle sprays continue to break the placid water and I am reminded that summer will eventually return.