Showing posts with label Summertime. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Summertime. Show all posts
7/15/2008
Capitol Hill this morning
I carry my skillfully rosetted soy latte outside, resting cup and saucer on a small wrought iron table. Truckers puff their compression brakes and incrementally ascend Olive Way. Diesel smells like 5-dollar bills bursting into flame. A reptilian tattoo coils neckward from under a cotton tank. An English Bulldog saunters beside a similarly jowled septuagenarian. My eyes rise along locust trees and higher to tiny verandas; one is completely filled by an unfinished Adirondack chair. I return to my coffee. Colors on salvaged barn-siding slowly coalesce into the faded shape of a girl. Swirled calligraphy sorts into sense. "I will always love the false image I had of you.”
7/07/2006
Freight Elevator
I used to produce music in a third floor office space, tucked behind the freight elevator of an old brick warehouse in Seattle. It was south of Pioneer Square, kitty-corner to the Kingdome.
Since I routinely schlepped my gear out to studios and editing suites, it was the freight elevator that made the third floor space feasible for me. It opened on both sides: into the main hallway and into my office.
The seasoned elevator had another fine virtue in addition to saving my back. The west wall of my office was exposed brick, which was perfect for funky urban chic. But there was nothing but the Alaska Way Viaduct between those bricks and the afternoon sun. Clear summer days were brutal...
The only remedy was to slide open the heavy door and send the elevator all the way down past the loading dock to the basement. The shaft fell through unremembered histories into the sediment of blue collar workdays. It was a well of hardworking ghosts and cool air. Both helped me meet more than one deadline.
Since I routinely schlepped my gear out to studios and editing suites, it was the freight elevator that made the third floor space feasible for me. It opened on both sides: into the main hallway and into my office.
The seasoned elevator had another fine virtue in addition to saving my back. The west wall of my office was exposed brick, which was perfect for funky urban chic. But there was nothing but the Alaska Way Viaduct between those bricks and the afternoon sun. Clear summer days were brutal...
The only remedy was to slide open the heavy door and send the elevator all the way down past the loading dock to the basement. The shaft fell through unremembered histories into the sediment of blue collar workdays. It was a well of hardworking ghosts and cool air. Both helped me meet more than one deadline.
3/10/2006
Flashlight Tag
Puberty had just begun insinuating its fascinations
Sparking daring acts of bravery
Like holding hands with one of my sister’s friends
Under the contrived cover of flashlight tag
As awkward as it was secret
And sweet as breakfast cereal
Better than television
1/23/2006
Porch Piano
Unboarded for summer
June bugs thumb heavily
Against rusted screens at night
Cigar clamped in his unshaved smile
Cocktail nearby
Eyes the color of sea foam
His right hand pets a melody
While the left strides
Between chord comp and bass line
From a never-tuned piano
Whispering, Stardust, and Blue Hawaii
Drift nightward like spirits
June bugs thumb heavily
Against rusted screens at night
Cigar clamped in his unshaved smile
Cocktail nearby
Eyes the color of sea foam
His right hand pets a melody
While the left strides
Between chord comp and bass line
From a never-tuned piano
Whispering, Stardust, and Blue Hawaii
Drift nightward like spirits
6/03/2004
Richie
Richie saw me as a catcher. His imagination must’ve been keener than his eye for talent. Squatting behind home plate was the last place on the diamond I wanted to be. I wasn’t built like a backstop, and I didn’t have a rifle of a throwing arm. The equipment seemed bulky and stifling. And playing catcher appeared to be an ideal way to get hurt, which I tried to make a point of avoiding.
This was my third and last year of Little League. I’d spent the first on a Minor League team where we had only hats and t-shirts, not real uniforms. Batters often got four or five strikes instead of three, and any ball hit in fair territory had a solid chance of becoming a homerun.
The following year I tried out again and was chosen by a bona fide Little League team. I would wear the maroon pinstripes of the Giants. They were a perennially competitive team, with a manager and bench coach who were bent on winning. They were tough, focused, and frequently mean. They were impatient with skill deficiencies, but uninterested in developing raw talent. They didn’t like weakness.
Because of my asthma I carried an inhaler with me in case I started wheezing. It didn’t occur to me until too late that I might as well have written “BENCH ME” across my forehead in red magic marker. The only action I saw that year was in the last inning or two of a game. When I did get to play, it was in right field: Little League’s dreaded badlands of boredom.
We lost the championship that year to the other winning-is-everything team, the Tigers. Our catcher, who was the bench coach’s son, threw a tantrum in the dugout. I remember being intrigued and confused by the severity of his reaction. It mirrored his father’s, except that the dad managed to contain his tears.
One of the best pieces of news I ever received was finding out that the manager and coach were quitting after that season. Many of our starters had to move on too because they were heading into junior high. Our star catcher was one of them, and nobody had been trained to take his place. We were left with a significant hole in our lineup.
During the off-season, Richie signed on to take over managing the team. He couldn’t have had a more fundamentally different approach to the game. His primary goal was for everyone on the team to make a contribution. He taught us the game, helped us develop our skills, and shaped us into ballplayers. Underscoring everything was the high value he placed on good sportsmanship.
It turned out that Richie was right about me; I was a catcher. I developed a real affection for the position. It didn’t take long for me to see that the catcher got to be involved in every single play on the field. The perspective from behind the plate was unequaled. I loved discovering the idiosyncrasies of different batters, and moving the target to where I thought they were least likely to connect with the ball.
I especially enjoyed the time-honored baseball tradition of chatter. My variation on the theme was to speak softly to the batter, just loud enough for him to hear. I’d narrate the moment, describing his nervousness and his uncertainty of whether or not a strike was on its way. Would he be able to hit it? Probably not. Maybe the pitch would hit him… When he seemed out of sync and edgy I’d shout, “Swing!” and he’d lunge for one in the dirt. What could be more fun than that!
Like most boys, I wanted to hit homeruns. I wanted to swing for the fences from way down on the knob of a big log of a bat. But Richie envisioned me hitting for average. He helped me modify my stance and my grip on the bat. It turned out that he was right about that too. I hit zero homeruns that year, but I hit safely 29 times in 61 at-bats.
The fact that I remember those numbers so clearly might be symptomatic of glory-days-syndrome, but it’s mostly a testament to the impact of being seen in a hopeful light. Richie imagined my potential and coached me toward it.
He did the same for the rest of my teammates, and we deepened our love for the game together. We lost the championship to the Tigers again, but it didn’t ruin our lives. It was a great year to wear maroon pinstripes.
This was my third and last year of Little League. I’d spent the first on a Minor League team where we had only hats and t-shirts, not real uniforms. Batters often got four or five strikes instead of three, and any ball hit in fair territory had a solid chance of becoming a homerun.
The following year I tried out again and was chosen by a bona fide Little League team. I would wear the maroon pinstripes of the Giants. They were a perennially competitive team, with a manager and bench coach who were bent on winning. They were tough, focused, and frequently mean. They were impatient with skill deficiencies, but uninterested in developing raw talent. They didn’t like weakness.
Because of my asthma I carried an inhaler with me in case I started wheezing. It didn’t occur to me until too late that I might as well have written “BENCH ME” across my forehead in red magic marker. The only action I saw that year was in the last inning or two of a game. When I did get to play, it was in right field: Little League’s dreaded badlands of boredom.
We lost the championship that year to the other winning-is-everything team, the Tigers. Our catcher, who was the bench coach’s son, threw a tantrum in the dugout. I remember being intrigued and confused by the severity of his reaction. It mirrored his father’s, except that the dad managed to contain his tears.
One of the best pieces of news I ever received was finding out that the manager and coach were quitting after that season. Many of our starters had to move on too because they were heading into junior high. Our star catcher was one of them, and nobody had been trained to take his place. We were left with a significant hole in our lineup.
During the off-season, Richie signed on to take over managing the team. He couldn’t have had a more fundamentally different approach to the game. His primary goal was for everyone on the team to make a contribution. He taught us the game, helped us develop our skills, and shaped us into ballplayers. Underscoring everything was the high value he placed on good sportsmanship.
It turned out that Richie was right about me; I was a catcher. I developed a real affection for the position. It didn’t take long for me to see that the catcher got to be involved in every single play on the field. The perspective from behind the plate was unequaled. I loved discovering the idiosyncrasies of different batters, and moving the target to where I thought they were least likely to connect with the ball.
I especially enjoyed the time-honored baseball tradition of chatter. My variation on the theme was to speak softly to the batter, just loud enough for him to hear. I’d narrate the moment, describing his nervousness and his uncertainty of whether or not a strike was on its way. Would he be able to hit it? Probably not. Maybe the pitch would hit him… When he seemed out of sync and edgy I’d shout, “Swing!” and he’d lunge for one in the dirt. What could be more fun than that!
Like most boys, I wanted to hit homeruns. I wanted to swing for the fences from way down on the knob of a big log of a bat. But Richie envisioned me hitting for average. He helped me modify my stance and my grip on the bat. It turned out that he was right about that too. I hit zero homeruns that year, but I hit safely 29 times in 61 at-bats.
The fact that I remember those numbers so clearly might be symptomatic of glory-days-syndrome, but it’s mostly a testament to the impact of being seen in a hopeful light. Richie imagined my potential and coached me toward it.
He did the same for the rest of my teammates, and we deepened our love for the game together. We lost the championship to the Tigers again, but it didn’t ruin our lives. It was a great year to wear maroon pinstripes.
4/27/2004
Meatball
Meatball lived in a ranch-style house two doors down from ours on Codwise Street. He was the Superintendent of Highways for the Town of Ulster, and his real name was Ed. I don’t know why he invited us neighborhood kids to call him Meatball; it might have been to ease the intimidation of his presence. His size and saunter, and the bigness of his voice always made me think of John Wayne. In my memory, the two men are one person.
Since Meatball was the Superintendent of Highways, Codwise Street was always kept in good repair. Potholes never got a chance to get too big. We didn’t have to wait long for the snowplows to come through in wintertime.
He also owned and operated the local garbage collection business. He housed his trucks in a huge garage he’d put up on the lot beyond his house. The return of his roaring white fleet in the afternoon was one of the ways we told time.
Donny Van Etten lived next door, between Meatball and me. He was my best friend until Kindergarten broadened our horizons. We spent our summers mostly doing things that made us very sweaty. That wasn’t difficult in the beastly swelter of Ulster County.
When we’d played ourselves into a sufficiently wilted state, we’d stare longingly through the fence at Meatball’s pool. If he wasn’t outside, it could take a while. Once he spotted us he’d holler, “Well, what’re ya waitin’ for? Go get yer swimsuits on!”
We’d take off like bottle rockets, and be back in no time, all suited up. It amazed us every time that he somehow knew how badly we needed a swim. It was like he could read our minds or something.
Our parents must’ve been embarrassed by our shameless angling, but Meatball genuinely liked us. We could tell. In point of fact, shameless is the perfect word to describe the way we waited for his invitation. We weren’t ashamed to be openly desperate.
It’s a hard thing to pull off without the grace of ignorance, though. As the years have accumulated, I’ve learned not to be bare. Part of becoming a grownup has meant attenuating my expectations and concealing my neediness.
But like the rest of humankind, I was made to expect good things. When I pray, I try to remember that it’s not unlike staring longingly through Meatball’s fence. I try to forget to be ashamed of my wilted, sweaty soul. It still amazes me that he knows how badly I need to be in the pool.
Since Meatball was the Superintendent of Highways, Codwise Street was always kept in good repair. Potholes never got a chance to get too big. We didn’t have to wait long for the snowplows to come through in wintertime.
He also owned and operated the local garbage collection business. He housed his trucks in a huge garage he’d put up on the lot beyond his house. The return of his roaring white fleet in the afternoon was one of the ways we told time.
Donny Van Etten lived next door, between Meatball and me. He was my best friend until Kindergarten broadened our horizons. We spent our summers mostly doing things that made us very sweaty. That wasn’t difficult in the beastly swelter of Ulster County.
When we’d played ourselves into a sufficiently wilted state, we’d stare longingly through the fence at Meatball’s pool. If he wasn’t outside, it could take a while. Once he spotted us he’d holler, “Well, what’re ya waitin’ for? Go get yer swimsuits on!”
We’d take off like bottle rockets, and be back in no time, all suited up. It amazed us every time that he somehow knew how badly we needed a swim. It was like he could read our minds or something.
Our parents must’ve been embarrassed by our shameless angling, but Meatball genuinely liked us. We could tell. In point of fact, shameless is the perfect word to describe the way we waited for his invitation. We weren’t ashamed to be openly desperate.
It’s a hard thing to pull off without the grace of ignorance, though. As the years have accumulated, I’ve learned not to be bare. Part of becoming a grownup has meant attenuating my expectations and concealing my neediness.
But like the rest of humankind, I was made to expect good things. When I pray, I try to remember that it’s not unlike staring longingly through Meatball’s fence. I try to forget to be ashamed of my wilted, sweaty soul. It still amazes me that he knows how badly I need to be in the pool.
4/02/2004
Crossing the Esopus
Off the beaten paths of my stomping grounds it wasn’t unusual to see the occasional homemade dump. An interesting characteristic of these unsanctioned piles was their power to solicit anonymous contributions.
I once saw a wooden boat hull protruding from a heap of bent aluminum lawn chairs, bald tires, and rusted appliances. Possibly a modest yacht in its prime, now its husk was all that was left.
At the time, I was working for the Town of Ulster Highway Department. Every summer the town hired as many local teenage boys as its budget would allow, and busied their idle hands with two weeks of menial labor. We dubbed ourselves townies.
A dump truck shuttled us to various remote locations where we’d usually be turned loose on a mess of weeds that needed clearing. Our foreman, Bill, was a white-haired Highway Department retiree. His task was to teach us a thing or two about government work.
When we arrived at a worksite, Bill’s instructions were always the same. “Okay now boys, do a little somethin’.” We’d make a good show of it in the cool of the morning, then stop for a break at 10:30. A less enthusiastic effort generally led up to lunch, over which we’d linger for as long as possible. After lunch we’d mostly lean on our shovels and scythes until the truck returned for us around mid-afternoon. Before leaving, Bill would survey the area and say, “Well, it looks a hell of a lot better than it did when we got here.”
The discarded hull appeared on a day when we’d been dropped off near the Esopus Creek. The Esopus begins as a little trout stream, but ends up being sixty-five miles long and averaging forty feet across. It has many personalities. This particular stretch was muddy with frothy suds bobbing here and there. Nonetheless, its shady shore was the perfect place to take our sack lunches. Bill tacitly approved of the idea since we weren’t likely to be seen by passing taxpayers. On our way down the dirt road to the creek we spied the derelict vessel.
With more sweat than we’d shed on the town’s behalf that morning, we managed to haul her down to the water’s edge. I hollered that we should shove off and jump aboard. Everyone yelled, “Aye-aye!” and shoved hard, but only two of us jumped. The others had better sense than to board a boat that had been dragged from a trash heap.
The craft unexpectedly stayed afloat. The Yoo-hoo colored current turned out to be much stronger than it looked. We were quickly in the middle of the creek, drifting downstream. Clearly, the situation called for decisive action.
My accidental co-adventurer was barely an acquaintance. I don’t think I even knew his name, but we skipped the introductions. He had the bow, I had the stern. The back of his head is really all I remember about him.
I ripped a piece of wood from the hull and started paddling. My shipmate chipped in and paddled with his hands. We weren’t about to swallow our pride and turn back. Our cronies – who were now bent over with laughter – had to be shown how much fun they were missing. We aimed for the opposite shore.
Getting across wasn’t easy. The hull filled with water, and was mostly submerged by the time we finally struck land. We sloshed ashore to take stock of the situation.
The beach was a thin strip of sandy clay, walled by a steep, overgrown bank. I decided to climb up and just start walking once I got my bearings. As far as I was concerned, we’d reached the every-man-for-himself stage of our journey.
I scrambled up, hand and foot. It was a slippery, itchy business. I parted the last tangle of bushes and was surprised by the bared teeth of a snarling dog. He changed my mind about hopping the wire fence that separated us.
I slid back down the bank and saw something happening on the other shore. My buddies were putting the finishing touches on a makeshift raft. It involved two droopy inner tubes and a wooden pallet. Since it would hold only two, my fellow castaway and I would have to be rescued one at a time.
I was odd man out for the first return voyage, so I stood at the water’s edge and watched them arm-paddle the fifty-plus feet back to the other side. Not surprisingly, the raft came apart as they reached the shallows.
My friends tried to repair it, but it looked like I’d have to return the same way I’d come. I got busy emptying the sunken hull of as much creekwater as I could, and pushed off. Halfway across, she went down for good and I had to swim for it.
Swimming was never a strong suit of mine, but I knew enough to find a focal point on the shore and flail toward it with all my might. Panic escorted me until I got to where my feet could touch bottom. I splashed and spluttered out of the drink, and fell forward onto dry land. I lay there for a while, flat and thankful.
The rest of the day was ordinary, if a tad soggy. We finished our lunches and went back to hacking weeds. The dump truck rumbled up for us, and Bill pronounced his blessing on our labors.
“Well boys, it looks a hell of a lot better than it did when we got here.”
I once saw a wooden boat hull protruding from a heap of bent aluminum lawn chairs, bald tires, and rusted appliances. Possibly a modest yacht in its prime, now its husk was all that was left.
At the time, I was working for the Town of Ulster Highway Department. Every summer the town hired as many local teenage boys as its budget would allow, and busied their idle hands with two weeks of menial labor. We dubbed ourselves townies.
A dump truck shuttled us to various remote locations where we’d usually be turned loose on a mess of weeds that needed clearing. Our foreman, Bill, was a white-haired Highway Department retiree. His task was to teach us a thing or two about government work.
When we arrived at a worksite, Bill’s instructions were always the same. “Okay now boys, do a little somethin’.” We’d make a good show of it in the cool of the morning, then stop for a break at 10:30. A less enthusiastic effort generally led up to lunch, over which we’d linger for as long as possible. After lunch we’d mostly lean on our shovels and scythes until the truck returned for us around mid-afternoon. Before leaving, Bill would survey the area and say, “Well, it looks a hell of a lot better than it did when we got here.”
The discarded hull appeared on a day when we’d been dropped off near the Esopus Creek. The Esopus begins as a little trout stream, but ends up being sixty-five miles long and averaging forty feet across. It has many personalities. This particular stretch was muddy with frothy suds bobbing here and there. Nonetheless, its shady shore was the perfect place to take our sack lunches. Bill tacitly approved of the idea since we weren’t likely to be seen by passing taxpayers. On our way down the dirt road to the creek we spied the derelict vessel.
With more sweat than we’d shed on the town’s behalf that morning, we managed to haul her down to the water’s edge. I hollered that we should shove off and jump aboard. Everyone yelled, “Aye-aye!” and shoved hard, but only two of us jumped. The others had better sense than to board a boat that had been dragged from a trash heap.
The craft unexpectedly stayed afloat. The Yoo-hoo colored current turned out to be much stronger than it looked. We were quickly in the middle of the creek, drifting downstream. Clearly, the situation called for decisive action.
My accidental co-adventurer was barely an acquaintance. I don’t think I even knew his name, but we skipped the introductions. He had the bow, I had the stern. The back of his head is really all I remember about him.
I ripped a piece of wood from the hull and started paddling. My shipmate chipped in and paddled with his hands. We weren’t about to swallow our pride and turn back. Our cronies – who were now bent over with laughter – had to be shown how much fun they were missing. We aimed for the opposite shore.
Getting across wasn’t easy. The hull filled with water, and was mostly submerged by the time we finally struck land. We sloshed ashore to take stock of the situation.
The beach was a thin strip of sandy clay, walled by a steep, overgrown bank. I decided to climb up and just start walking once I got my bearings. As far as I was concerned, we’d reached the every-man-for-himself stage of our journey.
I scrambled up, hand and foot. It was a slippery, itchy business. I parted the last tangle of bushes and was surprised by the bared teeth of a snarling dog. He changed my mind about hopping the wire fence that separated us.
I slid back down the bank and saw something happening on the other shore. My buddies were putting the finishing touches on a makeshift raft. It involved two droopy inner tubes and a wooden pallet. Since it would hold only two, my fellow castaway and I would have to be rescued one at a time.
I was odd man out for the first return voyage, so I stood at the water’s edge and watched them arm-paddle the fifty-plus feet back to the other side. Not surprisingly, the raft came apart as they reached the shallows.
My friends tried to repair it, but it looked like I’d have to return the same way I’d come. I got busy emptying the sunken hull of as much creekwater as I could, and pushed off. Halfway across, she went down for good and I had to swim for it.
Swimming was never a strong suit of mine, but I knew enough to find a focal point on the shore and flail toward it with all my might. Panic escorted me until I got to where my feet could touch bottom. I splashed and spluttered out of the drink, and fell forward onto dry land. I lay there for a while, flat and thankful.
The rest of the day was ordinary, if a tad soggy. We finished our lunches and went back to hacking weeds. The dump truck rumbled up for us, and Bill pronounced his blessing on our labors.
“Well boys, it looks a hell of a lot better than it did when we got here.”
4/01/2004
Shivering Lessons
I was skinny and not very buoyant. Swimming didn’t come naturally to me. I tended to sink, legs first. But breathing was the hardest part, since I battled hay fever and asthma. I had trouble mastering the rotating rhythm of aquatic respiration.
Head swiveled right, inhale through mouth… Face in water, exhale through nose… Head swiveled left, inhale through mouth… Face in water, exhale through nose… Or was it the other way around…
With a perpetually stuffy nose and wheezy lungs, I always ended up out of sync. I was afraid to exhale through my nose because of what might come out along with the air.
My first stint with swimming lessons took place during that summer’s chilliest week. It was dismal, drizzly and breezy. I have more memories of shivering than swimming. Everyday my mother pitied my blue lips and chattering teeth.
My parents enrolled me in swimming lessons to increase my chances of surviving childhood. I had a simpler motive for enduring the embarrassment and hypothermia. I was after the “I-Can-Swim” badge, which was the rec center’s official pass to the deep end of the pool. Frankly, swimming in the deep end didn’t matter as much to me as the status of access.
So I stood like a stick figure on the poolside concrete, shoulders huddled up under my ears, and shivered while I waited my turn to jump in. Once in the pool, the first challenge was to tread water. For me, this meant frantically flinging my limbs every which way while craning my neck to keep my face in the air. Next, I’d try to swim in a straight line from one side to the other without lapsing into the dogpaddle or sinking or getting snot on my cheek. Afterward I’d shiver beside the picnic table, not needing to chew my sandwich because the chattering of my teeth did the job automatically. And so it went, one day after another, all week long.
Naturally, a series of tests loomed at the end of the week. In addition to displaying our command of the various strokes we’d learned, we had to demonstrate our ability to save ourselves in an emergency situation. Wearing clothes over our bathing suits, we were to jump in, sink to the bottom, push off and shoot back up to the surface. Somewhere in the process we were supposed to shed the dead weight of our clothes. Then we’d tread water until the instructor told us to swim to the ladder and climb out.
We were advised to wear “play clothes” because the chlorine in the pool water might fade the colors. My Mom outfitted me in an old terrycloth shirt that I’d all but outgrown. It was literally made from towel fabric. I can only guess that she thought it would go well with the water theme.
The virtue of towels, of course, is that they absorb water. I jumped in the deep end and my shirt was instantly waterlogged. It might as well have been one of those lead vests you wear at the dentist’s office while they’re taking x-rays. It was so heavy that I couldn’t even peel it off as it lugged me to the bottom. Staring up through ten feet of water at the gray sky, the surface seemed impossibly far away.
The instructor pierced the poolwater like a dolphin and pulled me up. I clambered out onto the concrete and showed off my shivering skills, which were unmatched. I was confident that my Mom would consider my effort worth an order of fries from the snack bar.
Needless to say, there was no I-Can-Swim badge for me that year. I felt I could’ve saved myself (eventually…), but the pool staff was trained not to take any chances. I got over it; there was more to life than the deep end.
Swimming lessons fell during a sunnier week the following year. Somehow I met the requirements and got my badge. I went on to survive childhood. I confess, though, that I haven’t completely shaken my fear of getting snot on my cheek.
Head swiveled right, inhale through mouth… Face in water, exhale through nose… Head swiveled left, inhale through mouth… Face in water, exhale through nose… Or was it the other way around…
With a perpetually stuffy nose and wheezy lungs, I always ended up out of sync. I was afraid to exhale through my nose because of what might come out along with the air.
My first stint with swimming lessons took place during that summer’s chilliest week. It was dismal, drizzly and breezy. I have more memories of shivering than swimming. Everyday my mother pitied my blue lips and chattering teeth.
My parents enrolled me in swimming lessons to increase my chances of surviving childhood. I had a simpler motive for enduring the embarrassment and hypothermia. I was after the “I-Can-Swim” badge, which was the rec center’s official pass to the deep end of the pool. Frankly, swimming in the deep end didn’t matter as much to me as the status of access.
So I stood like a stick figure on the poolside concrete, shoulders huddled up under my ears, and shivered while I waited my turn to jump in. Once in the pool, the first challenge was to tread water. For me, this meant frantically flinging my limbs every which way while craning my neck to keep my face in the air. Next, I’d try to swim in a straight line from one side to the other without lapsing into the dogpaddle or sinking or getting snot on my cheek. Afterward I’d shiver beside the picnic table, not needing to chew my sandwich because the chattering of my teeth did the job automatically. And so it went, one day after another, all week long.
Naturally, a series of tests loomed at the end of the week. In addition to displaying our command of the various strokes we’d learned, we had to demonstrate our ability to save ourselves in an emergency situation. Wearing clothes over our bathing suits, we were to jump in, sink to the bottom, push off and shoot back up to the surface. Somewhere in the process we were supposed to shed the dead weight of our clothes. Then we’d tread water until the instructor told us to swim to the ladder and climb out.
We were advised to wear “play clothes” because the chlorine in the pool water might fade the colors. My Mom outfitted me in an old terrycloth shirt that I’d all but outgrown. It was literally made from towel fabric. I can only guess that she thought it would go well with the water theme.
The virtue of towels, of course, is that they absorb water. I jumped in the deep end and my shirt was instantly waterlogged. It might as well have been one of those lead vests you wear at the dentist’s office while they’re taking x-rays. It was so heavy that I couldn’t even peel it off as it lugged me to the bottom. Staring up through ten feet of water at the gray sky, the surface seemed impossibly far away.
The instructor pierced the poolwater like a dolphin and pulled me up. I clambered out onto the concrete and showed off my shivering skills, which were unmatched. I was confident that my Mom would consider my effort worth an order of fries from the snack bar.
Needless to say, there was no I-Can-Swim badge for me that year. I felt I could’ve saved myself (eventually…), but the pool staff was trained not to take any chances. I got over it; there was more to life than the deep end.
Swimming lessons fell during a sunnier week the following year. Somehow I met the requirements and got my badge. I went on to survive childhood. I confess, though, that I haven’t completely shaken my fear of getting snot on my cheek.
3/24/2004
The Best Treadmill I Ever Bought Was A Dog
Scott Burnett
Ten minutes into our walk we are pushing to the top of the second hill. It is less of an effort for my companion than it is for me. He has a lower center of gravity, and four points of contact with the earth. He pulls forward, keeping the leash and the muscles of my left arm taut. He is not trying to yank free; he is simply anxious to get on to wherever we’re going. At least, this is how I choose to see it.
At the gate to the pipeline trail there is a zinc-painted post. Around its base grows an unmowable tuft of scrub grass. For my dog, it is an olfactory NPR – one of his favorite stations along the way for sniffing out the day’s news. He plunges in nose-first, then looks up smiling, ears perked as if he’s heard the familiar chime of a wave file: “You’ve got mail…” Pee-mail, that is. He lifts his leg and replies to all.
I say, “C’mon!” and we’re on our way again. As far as I can tell, Boomer gives no thought to the mechanics of his gait. I, on the other hand, am trying to remember to keep my ankles square with my hips, and to leverage from my thighs in order to save wear and tear on my knees. Boomer darts to the left, making a lateral lunge for another exceedingly interesting mound of grass. I let out some slack from the leash, and continue walking. By now he knows the rhythm of my stride, and how long he has before the tug hits his collar, so he works quickly. Squirt-squirt. He’s just initialed an important document that is completely invisible to me. “Come!” and he’s back at my side, pulling ahead as if to imply that it was I who’d been sidetracked.
The gravel crunches underfoot like granola for breakfast. These walks have been good food for me: body, soul, and mind. Regular exercise does not come easily to me, but Boomer has reintroduced a long missing ingredient into the mix. Play. He makes me want to walk, and he gives me a reason to go even when I don’t feel like it. He is a spring-loaded, stinky-kissing, let’s-go-eyed, black-brindled reason to strap on my sneakers, don my fedora, and dive into the drizzly night. Gorgeous, pastoral summer days are very rare in our neck of the woods, so a commitment to consistent outdoor exercise is bound to be tested often.
But today is one of those rare perfect days that would make the whole world move to Seattle if word were to get out. Behind us are the Cascade Mountains, in front of us the Olympics. The manmade, flat-sided peaks of the cities are also visible, flashing reflected sunshine our direction. Close by, there are amply pastured horses, and beautifully landscaped estates. The dragonflies are back. The sun is hot, the breeze is cool, and the air is full of fragrances. Cut grass, manure, and a hundred varieties of flower converge upon my woefully sub-canine sniffer. I can only imagine the stories Boomer is reading on the wind.
Squirt-squirt. Boomer, to his way of thinking, now owns another strategic clump of grass along the trail. It seems like a good way of thinking to me. In fact, from this vantage point, my soul is inclined to lay claim to two mountain ranges, thousands of verdant acres, a salmon stream, and this well-kept trail running straight through the middle of it all.
Scott Burnett
Ten minutes into our walk we are pushing to the top of the second hill. It is less of an effort for my companion than it is for me. He has a lower center of gravity, and four points of contact with the earth. He pulls forward, keeping the leash and the muscles of my left arm taut. He is not trying to yank free; he is simply anxious to get on to wherever we’re going. At least, this is how I choose to see it.
At the gate to the pipeline trail there is a zinc-painted post. Around its base grows an unmowable tuft of scrub grass. For my dog, it is an olfactory NPR – one of his favorite stations along the way for sniffing out the day’s news. He plunges in nose-first, then looks up smiling, ears perked as if he’s heard the familiar chime of a wave file: “You’ve got mail…” Pee-mail, that is. He lifts his leg and replies to all.
I say, “C’mon!” and we’re on our way again. As far as I can tell, Boomer gives no thought to the mechanics of his gait. I, on the other hand, am trying to remember to keep my ankles square with my hips, and to leverage from my thighs in order to save wear and tear on my knees. Boomer darts to the left, making a lateral lunge for another exceedingly interesting mound of grass. I let out some slack from the leash, and continue walking. By now he knows the rhythm of my stride, and how long he has before the tug hits his collar, so he works quickly. Squirt-squirt. He’s just initialed an important document that is completely invisible to me. “Come!” and he’s back at my side, pulling ahead as if to imply that it was I who’d been sidetracked.
The gravel crunches underfoot like granola for breakfast. These walks have been good food for me: body, soul, and mind. Regular exercise does not come easily to me, but Boomer has reintroduced a long missing ingredient into the mix. Play. He makes me want to walk, and he gives me a reason to go even when I don’t feel like it. He is a spring-loaded, stinky-kissing, let’s-go-eyed, black-brindled reason to strap on my sneakers, don my fedora, and dive into the drizzly night. Gorgeous, pastoral summer days are very rare in our neck of the woods, so a commitment to consistent outdoor exercise is bound to be tested often.
But today is one of those rare perfect days that would make the whole world move to Seattle if word were to get out. Behind us are the Cascade Mountains, in front of us the Olympics. The manmade, flat-sided peaks of the cities are also visible, flashing reflected sunshine our direction. Close by, there are amply pastured horses, and beautifully landscaped estates. The dragonflies are back. The sun is hot, the breeze is cool, and the air is full of fragrances. Cut grass, manure, and a hundred varieties of flower converge upon my woefully sub-canine sniffer. I can only imagine the stories Boomer is reading on the wind.
Squirt-squirt. Boomer, to his way of thinking, now owns another strategic clump of grass along the trail. It seems like a good way of thinking to me. In fact, from this vantage point, my soul is inclined to lay claim to two mountain ranges, thousands of verdant acres, a salmon stream, and this well-kept trail running straight through the middle of it all.
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