Category: the pool

My Moment in the Twilight Zone

8 a.m. Saturday morning. Location: A sleepy, small town in northern California. Nearby a woman is driving to the town’s natatorium as she has done before on countless Saturdays. She knows that the regulars will be there, chatting, waiting in line for the facility to open. But this Saturday morning everything was different, strange. This disruption in her routine would continue to puzzle her in the days to come and made her question whether she got the date and time wrong or she was experiencing cognitive decline or whether she had temporarily entered….the twilight zone.

As the woman arrives, she looks for a parking space and notices her preferred parking spot is available and silently exclaims “Yes!” But her enthusiasm quickly turned to puzzlement when she discovers that empty parking spaces abound, unusual for this time and day. And although it is early, it is noteworthy that no one is walking by and no cars are driving by.

As she gets closer to the entrance, she notices there is no line where there usually is one. There’s no pre-swim chatter, no sign of pool shoes or towels hanging out of backpacks. What is going on? Where is Jan or Marlon or Michelle, some of the pool regulars? There’s only silence, broken up occasionally by croaking frogs.

She walked up the stairs and there was a Closed sign on the door. She checked her phone to make sure she had the right time. That checked out. She checked the bulletin board to see if there were any announcements about pool closures, after all there had been pool closures due to lack of lifeguards before. Nope. There was an announcement about lifeguard jobs available and a schedule from 2023. But nothing about a pool closure.

Things weren’t adding up.

She walked back to her car and checked her phone to make sure it really was Saturday. It was, at least according to her phone, if she could trust that. Puzzled, she reluctantly started to drive home. But couldn’t let go of the uneasy feeling-why wasn’t anyone else here? So she turned her car around and waited to see if anyone else showed up to the closed pool. She did see someone carrying a towel walking toward the pool. Then another person parked in front of the facility. This person didn’t get out of their car but she could see him getting on his phone, undoubtedly to let a friend know the pool was closed.

Relieved, somewhat, she drove home still feeling unsettled. She theorized the others must have gotten some kind of heads up about the pool being closed. Once home, she immediately checked the web site to see if the pool closure was announced there. Nope.

This inexplicable disruption in her routine occupied her thoughts the entire weekend. Was it her reliance on things the way they had been for years not allow for this change? As an elder was this emphasis on something others would consider minor a cause for concern? Could this be the first of many experiences pointing to a cognitive decline?

She sent an email to the manager expressing her disappointment that the facility was closed but made sure to let her know how much she loved the pool and appreciated her and her staff’s efforts. “It’s such a friendly place and wonderful resource.”

The manager responded, letting her know that she checked with her staff and the pool was open on Saturday. Emails were exchanged, each describing their version of the events. She decided that she would wait until Monday to see if things would return to normal.

It did. The next Saturday all was well, too.

Recounting the details of a seemingly insignificant event may seem overly dramatic. But this was my experience. I felt the unease intensely and made me wonder about my sanity a bit. Things have returned to normal, expectations are being met each time I go back. But what lingers from the event is a mystery to me and I can’t shake the odd feeling from that day.

The aforementioned Natatorium, known to the locals as the Richmond Plunge.

The Power of a Child’s Hug

It was Saturday, my pool day. I had finished my workout and was leaving just as people started to arrive for family swim time. When I got to the changing area of the locker room I heard a voice, high-pitched and enthusiastic, say “hi!.” and then I felt two arms encircling my legs.

Startled, I looked down and saw a child looking up at me. She had black hair, big eyes, long eyelashes, and a wide smile. In that moment, the people in the background faded away, and all the locker room noise was drowned out, the hum of the hair dryers, the hissing of the showers, the chatter of the women. All my attention focused on this child. I bent down and said, “Hi! You have a nice swim, OK?”

Having been acknowledged, she giggled and ran off to go with her mother and was gone before I could say what I wished I had said. “Thanks so much. I really needed that. I haven’t had a hug in a long time. Sometimes I feel invisible and it’s so nice to be noticed.”

Walking to the car, I found myself smiling broadly which is something I rarely do. Despite it being a cold, cloudy day, I was warmed by the gesture of this child. I was surprised at how unexpected it was, how it touched me, and how I got what I didn’t know I needed. I was especially surprised that I received this gift from a child.

The thing is I’m not very comfortable with kids. I’m not around them very much and I don’t seek them out. I was not one of those women who always wanted children. I made up my mind when I was very young that I wouldn’t have any. Watching how my mom struggled being a single parent with 5 kids, 4 boys and me, the only girl and the oldest, I decided that the noise, chaos, and despair I lived through growing up was not for me. When I got older, I would proudly proclaim to friends that “having a dog is the closest thing I’ll ever get to motherhood.”

But every now and then I see a child like this one and wonder what I missed out on. For a moment, I can imagine a life with a stable family, children, happiness, fun. Then just as quickly as the perfect family images appear, they go out of my mind.

In that girl, I saw glimmers of myself as a child. I flashed back to a picture I have of me, age 5 or so, sitting on top an old black and white TV, legs extended, wearing saddle shoes, smiling mischievously, naturally curly hair in full display. That child looked sassy and open to conversation with anyone.
What happened to that spirit? I used to be like the child at the pool.

As I grew older, I never wanted to stand out or be in the spotlight.  When I got recognition for good grades or an activity, I brushed it off. I didn’t want anyone to make a fuss. Fearful of saying the wrong thing or looking stupid, I took the “only speak when spoken to” credo to heart and have carried it into adulthood despite knowing that it doesn’t serve me well. I preferred being in the background. So, you’d think that since I prized invisibility when I was young, I’d appreciate feeling that way now that I’m older. But I don’t.

When I was younger, wanting to appear invisible was a choice. But these days, it’s not a choice and I find that any time I am seen, I welcome it.

This girl saw me, and I like to think she chose me because she sensed that I needed what was so easy for her to give-acknowledgement and affection.

I wanted to honor the memory of this girl who left such an impression on me, so I gave her a name, Cora. I didn’t want to keep referring to her as the “child I met in the pool that time who unexpectedly hugged me.” When I feel like I’m invisible or need to experience the joy and openness of a child, I can think of Cora and her sweet smile.

Cora reminded me of the importance and joy of connecting. Since I met her, I try to follow her example and say “hi” and smile at strangers. My greeting may not be as enthusiastic as hers but it’s still effective and I find that most people smile or say hello back. If I don’t get a response or feel that someone is being halfhearted, I don’t dwell on it as a failed attempt as I have done in the past.

I’ve discovered that the simple act of reaching out first to someone is enormously satisfying. If I stretch myself, I ask the person’s name if I run into them more than once or twice,

All this sounds so basic but somewhere along the line, I didn’t learn this simple lesson of connecting because I was so fearful of being judged. I eventually had to ask myself, “You mean I could have been doing this my whole life?” I flashed back to all the missed opportunities for making the connections in the past and had to force myself to stop, remembering that adage “When you know better, you do better.”

Looking back, I was closed off, waiting to be awakened and Cora’s youthful impetuousness gave me an example of how I could be in the world. I probably won’t be wrapping my arms around strangers’ legs to get attention. But I do try to say hello or smile. You never know when someone is feeling invisible and will be glad to be seen.