2005-07-07 - 5:04 p.m.
Dad always liked driving the car backwards, specifically backing into parking spots and the driveway. This may have been so he, following an afternoon of shopping with his wife and kids, could make a quick exit, a defiant leap forward.
Though Dad always liked driving backwards, he wasn’t particularly good at it. The old Chevy II station wagon had plenty of paint scrapes and bumper dents marking where Dad struck posts and curbs.
The driveway was a narrow concrete gulley between our house and the neighbor’s. It led past the house and backyard to the garage. The three of us kids were playing in that back yard one hot summer day when Dad roared the Chevy II backwards up the driveway like he’d done hundreds of times before. Only this time he pulled up well short of the garage.
He stepped out, flashed a grin, looked at me, and asked, “Well, aren’t you going to help me put it together?”
It turned out to be an above-ground swimming pool. Under Mom’s careful direction we laid out the plastic liner, set up its metal circular frame, and assembled the ladder that would take sweaty and bored kids over its lip and into the cool water.
Mom studied carefully the pool ownership guide. She measured, mixed, and chlorinated. She had (and meant to keep) a valuable tool, one promising hours of relief directly to kids and indirectly to herself and to neighborhood parents. The adults could get a break from the kids, and perhaps a welcome evening dip for themselves.
My sister and I were tall enough that we could stand in its three-foot depths with our mouths and noses safely above its water line. Our little brother Michael, however, had to wear an orange life preserver collared around his neck and shoulders.
For a brief time that summer our backyard was the center of neighborhood social activities. In the afternoons one could hear the yelps and splashes of kids in the pool as they fought over float toys and squirt guns. In the evenings Mom, Dad, and one or two neighbors would gather around the pools stilled waters, occasionally venturing in, but more often sitting on lawn chairs and drinking beer or screwdrivers during those humid July nights.
Mom and Dad even bought Tiki lamps, a trio of metal posts topped with oil lamps. They were supposed to ward off mosquitoes, and their flame gave a pleasant orange glow to evenings poolside.
All went well and the dual worlds of the pool remained separate until one night Michael insisted on an evening swim. He stammered, screamed, and begged until Mom relented, strapped his life preserver around him, and helped him up the ladder and into the pool. She lit the Tiki lamps so she could look outside and keep an eye on him as he splashed about.
Dad had been out late that night at some planning party for his high school reunion. Michael probably paid little attention as the Chevy II barreled backwards up the driveway. Unfortunately, Dad’s aim was off again. The Chevy II slid off the concrete and hit a Tiki lamp.
The lamp fell against the plastic liner, starting what would become quite a little fire. Dad somehow hadn’t noticed what had happened and was still sauntering toward the house when the chorus of screaming began.
First, Michael shouted about the growing ring of fire blocking his escape. Then my mother noticed what was happening, screamed, and rushed to the scene. By the time my sister and I had arrived, Mom had waved Michael to one area away from the burning liner and ladder. In a fit of adrenaline rush that tiny woman yanked Michael out of the water, and in one continuous motion dragged him along as she yelled at Dad for his slipshod, backward driving.
The pool was gone the following day. It left in its wake a circle of dead brown grass. We told the neighbor kids that’s where the UFO landed and took away the pool.
