taking the waters

 

It looks like this right now, except for a few stray leaves from the storm last night. I found and patched the slight leak. The pump is running even if the filter stopped working years ago. The little chlorine ducks wander, keeping things drinkable come Armageddon. I brushed the inside down, a good upper body workout.

The past few days have been pool-perfect. mid-90s. high, drunken sheep clouds, the occasional whisper of a breeze. I dog paddle in a circle, snagging leaves and tucking them over the railing. Then I drift for a while in a seat that suspends me so gently it would be easy to fall asleep and get scorched, except the balance point for me and the sling suspended on a bent pool noodle is critical and must be maintained by shifts as simple as a deep breath. The least amount of effort needed to keep from being tipped out.

This is the sensation that makes all the trouble worthwhile. Floating. Flipping the bird at gravity and all the trouble it wreaks on my old frame. My fractured and compressed vertebrae come off one another and relax while I float. 

I can close my eyes and remember the sensation of surrender that I felt the first time I was allowed into the pond away from my mother's reach. I can remember falling face down and coming up sputtering to see my father laughing at my amazement and lack of fear. He crouched on the verge, in his shiny wingtips, bowling shirt and brilliantined hair. Going somewhere.

My mother sat in the water in her ruched two-piece, passed her lipstick-stained cigarette back to him on the off chance that I might need catching. I did not. I stood up in water chest-deep when I had not yet walked on dry land I was so fat. I stepped back and away from her and felt the freedom of buoyancy. It felt like wings.

Rosie was ready to lunge, the look on her face both proud and apprehensive. My dad applauded and laughed again. The water cradled and held me. Loved me, rubber pants and all. I remember everything. My mother took this picture, her best friend Ezara, holding me upright. I wouldn't be one until mid-October.

                                                                                🌊🌊🌊

These days, I have a small Bluetooth speaker that connects to music in my phone, zipped into a sandwich bag. I put my back to the house and dream into the woods. The water is a perfect (for me) 80 degrees. Some herb would be nice, but not necessary.

Yesterday, there was work to do. A hard assessment. We bought the pool, and Jim built the deck in 1998.  Twenty-eight years ago and that's the same pool liner and infrastructure. The decking hasn't fared as well, but it's only wood and has had little to no maintenance. You can only pressure wash wood so many times.

While I drifted, I counted the boards, measured by eye, and did the math. 1800 dollars, give or take,just in lumber. Colin can do the labor. The supporting framing is still solid - Jim always overbuilt structures, bless him. 

A central steel support column on the main deck -the dye deck- needs to be replaced because someone has been letting salt leach down through the boards for years. The wood is pickled, but the steel corroded through. 

That task out of the way, I switched over to the big tube with the mesh bottom and drink holders so I could take up notebook and pen for a while with my sombrero giving me just enough shade to scribble. I sometimes get pages and pages which usually boil down to one or two lines of dialogue or an incident. Something to move the story along. 

Yes, I am brown and wrinkled, and the story will wrap up at an abandoned beachfront cottage. Any day now, but that would require hours with the laptop and it's going to be another beautiful summer day.