Cold Water Ears

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

 

Recently my brother’s doctor peered into his ears and announced “You must have done a lot of swimming in cold water when you were young.”

Indeed we did.

 

 

That’s how my brother developed the bony growths the doctor spotted.

 

I’m sure I have them as well, although a medical professional has never brought them up.

 

When summer finally came to the Catskill Mountains where we grew up, we chose between cold water and colder water. We headed either for the Sawkill or the family pool.

 

The Sawkill (note that “kill” means “creek” in that neck of the woods) was off limits in the early spring when it ran high after heavy rains. For one thing, the high water was an opaque rusty red from clay deposits upstream. For another, we could hear rocks slamming together and see limbs thrashing in the current. Even at an age when we had little idea of what mortality was all about, we knew enough to pass on a rock-slamming swim.

 

In summer, however, the stream ran clear. But the level was usually low and the pools only a few feet deep and a few wide. Not exactly conducive to swimming laps or executing wave-creating cannon balls.

 

So mostly we picked the family pool. Built in 1941 and now no more, it wasn’t fancy. It was an in-ground concrete-lined rectangular box with a sloping bottom that filled and was replenished with water from a hillside spring. Shaded by that hillside and plenty of trees, the water remained chilly for weeks. By the end of August, it began to cool down when the days weren’t long enough to replace heat that lengthening nights sucked from the water.

 

So, the window of opportunity was short. But we were hardy souls. And, let’s face it, without computers, smart phones, and more than the two TV channels our set picked up, there wasn’t much else to do. The days seemed to stretch forever and then compress suddenly as the start of another school year loomed. So, we crammed in all the swimming we could. We splashed and sunned and bet who could swim farther underwater, or knock someone else off a tube, or do a complete flip, or bring up a quarter from the corner of the pool where water didn’t circulate much and green slime grew thicker every day.

 

There was no filter system on that pool, and no chlorine to kill germs. My father tossed in a handful of copper sulfate now and then, but it didn’t deter the algae. It did, however, seep into my hair and by the end of the summer it was a brassy green that kids at school would tease me about.

 

It a weird way, I didn’t mind that. Green hair set me apart. At least for a few weeks. Then, like my summer tan, the tint faded. I don’t have many pictures from those days. Perhaps my brother will ask his doctor to take some shots of the interior of his ears to remind me of how it was.

 

 

 

The Indy 500 of the future.

PA Announcer: “Gentlemen Start Your Engines!”

Dead silence.

A field of 27 high-powered EVs zip silently for the first turn.

Or imagine a Daytona race with only a high-pitched humming for a soundtrack.

The makers of America’s traditional muscle cars, notably Dodge Challenger and Charger and Ford Mustang are now marketing Electric Vehicles that will outperform their gasoline-powered namesakes. Tesla, Lucid and a number of others are also hitting the market.

For  gearhead skeptics, the quickest EV, the Lucid Air Sapphire will go from 0-60 in under 2 seconds. 1.85 to be precise.

Part of the change that will be hard for some to cope with is cultural. The ritual of idling at a stop light alongside another muscle car, pumping the gas pedal and personal testosterone levels up to the rumble and roar of a 396 or 427 eight-cylinder mega-beast will fade into our collective memories.

My million-dollar idea, (Which Dodge has already pre-empted. More on that in a second) is creating a device that incorporates a tiny mp3 player loaded with muscle car sounds from our automotive past. It would be set up to correspond to different levels of foot pressure on the accelerator. Users could dial up the engine sound they wanted to pump into high-quality rear mounted speakers and the relative volume they wanted to inflict on other motorists and pedestrians. I’m working on brand names. I’m thinking either Vroomblaster or Growlplifier. Other small steps that might help ease the motorhead angst include flame decals, fuzzy dice for the rear-view mirror and a device that sprays a delicate mist of gasoline smell into the car's cockpit.   

Dodge’s new EV Challengers and Chargers will come standard with built in massive gas engine sounds. They’ll also have exhaust pipes and manual gear shifts, neither of which is necessary (or useful) in operating the vehicle. But they hope the devices will act as an attractant for those who still get an almost sexual charge from hearing their car burble and rumble as they wait for the light to change.

        The other cultural shift will be adapting our rich library of hot rod songs to the new EV reality. A couple of possible examples.

        She unplugged her daddy’s car and cruised to the hamburger stand now. She forgot all about the library like she told her old man now!

    Little GTO. You’re really looking fine. Eight anodes and a quick jolt. You really glide off the line.

It's the little old lady from Pasadena (Go granny, go granny, go granny, go)

Has a pretty little flowerbed of white gardenias (Go granny, go granny, go granny, go)

But plugged in at her rickety old garage. There's a brand new shiny red EV Dodge

    Kidding aside, I love my Nissan Leaf E.V. Quiet, quick and non-polluting. I love driving by gas stations and thumbing my nose at the insane prices they’re asking for gasoline. I love getting a gasoline bill with the number 0 in the total charges' column.

        My prediction. (And I have a horrible track record of predicting the future. For example, I never saw Trump coming.) Within ten years EVs will be the dominant vehicle on America’s roads and highways. If I’m right, remember you read it here. And if I’m wrong, refer to the words in the prior parentheses.