From House To Home

The pool at my family’s house in New Jersey is its own fabulous time warp. Dug in 1970, it’s large and rectangular and gets repainted in the original psychedelic flower and bubble pattern that made its groovy debut 36 years ago. Even the blue fiberglass slide still stands near the shallow end, its continued presence ever pleasing to my keenly developed taste for childhood nostalgia. That, and it’s pretty amusing when on the rare occasion, someone decides to slide down, not realizing that the water hose stopped working around ‘87. The screeching noise that a wet bathing suit makes against the dry slide—and the corresponding look of surprised worry—is always a crowd pleaser.

Summers in New Jersey meant practically living in the pool. When I was around 4 years old, I swam around using a contraption made of a rainbow colored belt attached to a Styrofoam bubble (still have it) until I was proficient on my own. When that day came, it was only when my lips were blue, my fingers were shriveled, and I was visibly shivering that I emerged from the water to eat Jersey Mike’s subs under a blue and red Cinzano umbrella, the scent of chlorine and Coppertone lingering in the hot breeze.

Our quirky pool area with the two old-fashioned changing cabanas was host to a yearly parade of flip-flop clad friends wielding inner tubes, goggles, and flippers. Countless cannonballs, belly-flops, back flips, and doggie-paddle races transpired during its heyday. I’ve been thrown in with my clothes on, sneaked in with my clothes off, and floated on my back, gazing at the early September sky—willing summer to stay forever. With a slide and diving board that was once in use simultaneously, I can close my eyes and recall the sound of summer as a distinct chorus of the delighted splashing, shrieking, and laughter of children.

The kids are all long-since grown and there aren’t many people around to use the pool anymore. Could be the fact that it’s 13 feet deep, always loaded with bugs and leaves, and completely shaded by trees that scares off the very same people who once played Marco Polo with abandon. Regardless, we all still gather around it every summer, having parties and barbecues, occasionally glancing at its time-worn bubbles and flowers that quietly rest beneath the still water.