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.

 

 

A Hole in the Water

Carolyn J. Rose

 Every day that I can, I hit the pool for deep-water exercise. Sometimes I run and jog on my own. Sometimes I take a class. Sometimes I chat with others while we work out. Sometimes—usually when I’m stuck on a plot problem and want to concentrate—I paste on my I-want-to-be-alone face and attempt to avoid distractions.

Because I stick to a schedule, I run into the “usual suspects,” swimmers who are sticking to their schedules. Some come for the social aspects—generally they talk more than they exercise. Others are more concerned about the physical benefits—they work as hard as they’re able. Some are preparing for surgery or recovering from it, trying to improve or retain flexibility, or hoping to trim flab and build core muscles.

Sometimes I introduce myself. Sometimes they do. Almost always first names only. Sometimes we remain nameless. I think of them as the man with the fierce butterfly stroke, the woman who never stops talking, the man who rests after every lap, the woman who comes with her sister, the man who always has a tan, the woman who either hasn’t read or doesn’t care about the notice asking us to refrain from wearing perfume.

There are some swimmers whose routines have overlapped mine for a dozen years. There are some who come for only a few months as part of recommended physical therapy. There are others who get a new work schedule, move, or head south for the winter. There are even a few who want more than the public facility offers and leave to join a club.

And there are still others who don’t return because they can’t. Because their health has failed. Or worse.

Those are the ones who leave a hole in the water.

Those are the ones who make me painfully aware of mortality.

Those are the ones who make me wonder how many more days of swimming I’ll have before I leave a hole of my own.