Sweltering Summers & Precious Pool Time I remember the sweltering days of a Louisville summer. Each afternoon my brother and I would beg Mom to take us to the pool. We were relentless. Often the small blow-up pool in the backyard sufficed. But most times not. (The grass at the bottom of our bare feet was forever getting into the water and making it yucky.) Sometimes we’d wait until Dad came home from work, then all four of us would go to the Middletown pool. Those times were the best. Dad would always get in the pool with us and play. But first he taught us both how to swim. What seems elementary now, seemed monumentally difficult as a beginner. I was reminded of these times last week. The Bug and the Pea went to their first sleep-away camp and I accompanied the group as a chaperone. (Much to their chagrin. “Mom! You’re embarrassing us!”) Boys living in New Orleans’s Ninth Ward comprised about a fourth of our group. Many of these children had never left New Orleans, ever. Not for an afternoon, not for a day, certainly not for a week. Many of these children had never ordered their own food in a restaurant, never been offered a quick snack and drink after a “potty break stop” along the way. It was humbling to see their awe at the little things my kids and I take for granted. The most refreshing part of our day was “Swim Time.” During a week of triple digit temperatures, the pool was essential. We were assigned one hour each day that our group of forty could swim. The lifeguards conducted swim tests to make sure the children would be safe in the deep end of the pool. Most of the children jumped right in and swam from one side of the pool to the other. In fact, all of the children, save the boys from the Ninth Ward, passed the swim test. It had never occurred to me that these boys didn’t have access to a swimming pool at home, much less a suitable swim instructor. From the first day forward, the kids and chaperones set about teaching the boys to swim. The boys stayed in the 3 foot deep end of the pool where they could safely stand. Gradually they began to trust their “trainers.” One boy in particular, M, was up to the challenge. He was determined to pass the swim test before the end of the week. He surveyed the kids one by one, asking how they swam. Then he would mimic them. First the kicking, then the arm movements. M would thrash the water as if he were fighting it to stay alive. But he kept at it. Then, trusting a chaperone to catch him, he tried the slide. Then he tried the slide again. M went a bit deeper and tried to doggy paddle, but that didn’t take him too far. So he resorted to kicking and stretching his arms out, with his head under water. He came up for breath every few strokes. Tirelessly he practiced. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Going into Friday, the chaperones encouraged him to take the swim test. The counselors would be stationed at points across the pool, just in case he needed help in the deep end and wasn’t able to finish the test. He decided to take a chance. Under the watchful eyes of the lifeguard, M jumped into the water. His arms began to move, his legs began to kick, we began to chant his name. “You’re almost there!” cried one supervisor. He thrashed, he splashed, he plowed forward. In no time he’d reached the other side of the pool. Cheers erupted from the kids, the chaperones, even the lifeguard. Instead of a victory lap, he went straight to the diving board, jumped off, and swam to the side. The broad grin on M’s face was priceless.