Summer. Makes me think of cannonballs and displaced water, swells of it spouting and disappearing the jumper and their silly grin for a few seconds as they take the plunge. I spent most of my summers and raised my kids in the hot, hot state of Texas, where the only way to celebrate the out of doors was to be wet. We were lucky and had a neighborhood swim club. We were also fortunate in that our pool, which was nothing fancy, had a high dive. Many newer pools didn’t have this coveted feature as the higher the board, the deeper the pool, the more money to build it. But ours was old and cherished. There, time was spent at swim practice, weekly meets, and parties where the aroma of grilled meat wafted over a sweltering balm, where the adults sipped from their thermal bottles of boozy beverages, watching, a little tipsy, knowing the lifeguards would back us up, as our kids ran amok. Where, as twilight fell, the games began.
That’s a lovely prose poem, Gina--a keeper!
Thank you, Ellen! That means a lot.