Dear

        “Hello Dear. How was the swimming today?” Middle-aged salt and peppered pony-tailed man is getting into the car next to me. Do I know him? He called me ‘dear’ like I was someone he knew. But then, he probably calls all women dear. I should be offended by this, but I’m not.

        He’s got a presence of authority and weight. I wouldn’t dream of ignoring him. But do wonder if I know him or have chatted with him before.

            “It was great!” I exclaim. Because it had been.

When I’d arrived, checking in at the front window of Kennedy High Pool, I noted how the lifeguard lane chart displayed prominently on the counter in front of me was nearly empty. No red XX’s in any of the lanes except for one. Could that be true? Only one other swimmer was there today? “Looks like there’s lots of room,” I’d grinned behind my mask. Toto, one of the senior lifeguards, almost smiled, “It’s your own private pool.”

            I’d laughed. “I like that!” His smile broadened.

            And, when I’d walked out on deck, only Dori, the beauteous Cello Player, was swimming her languid flippered laps.

            It was a beautiful dream.

            So, now when Pony Tail man asks me about my swim, I can’t help but spread my delight. It was such a rare treat to have my own private pool!

            “What’s your stroke?” he asks me now.

            “Oh, lately I like backstroke, but honestly, I’m a freestyler. How about you?”

            “Freestyle.” He nods, opening the car door to his massive SUV. He leans on the open door, settling in for a chat. “I like a little breaststroke. I tried to master the butterfly…” He chuckles.

            “Yeah, me too,” I agree. “But I could only move forward with my flippers.”

            He nods, “And then I did some springboard. Some platform. My brother, he was a platform diver. On teams. Won some awards.”

            “Wow! That’s impressive,” I say. “I tried to do a little diving myself in high school, but too scary for me. I stuck to swimming.”

            “I understand,” he nods, pausing for a moment, gazing out at the street that runs by the pool. Two Canada geese honk overhead.

            “I played myself a little ice hockey, too.”

            “You were a real athlete!” I marvel.

            He nods, “Back in the day, maybe. Now, though, it’s good for my job.” He nods over at the high school but doesn’t elaborate on what his job is. I wonder if he’s the principal. He seems like a principal to me because of his weight, authority, and friendliness. But it would make sense that he's a coach, right? All that sport experience and knowledge of swimming.

            He heaves himself into the car, “You have a nice rest of your day, Dear.”

            “Yes, thanks, you too.” I open my car door and climb into the warmth of the front seat.

            He starts his engine and backs out quickly, speeding off to who knows where. Lunch? A tryst with his lover? Home to his wife? A drive down to the marina?

            As I start my engine, I wonder why he talked to me. Guess it was that swimmer common ground situation. And proximity. And I just invite conversation?

            I turn on Beethoven. Back out of the parking space and head out of the lot. More Canada geese fly overhead as Alfred Brendel’s hands dance over the keyboard. I turn up the radio. And grin and grin and grin!

Alfred Brendel plays Beethoven's Sonata no 1

Martin Luther King Day

“Do you have tomorrow off, Carol?” Tomorrow is Martin Luther King Day---a holiday we should all celebrate. Or at least think about!

We’re in the showers, post chaotic swim at Kennedy High pool. I always think it’s strange to have conversations in the showers, but when else do we have time to chat? Certainly not in the pool.

            “Well…kinda,” I respond, before dunking my soapy head back under the water.

            “What do you mean?” Susan asks as she vigorously scrubs her torso.

            “I have tomorrow off from teaching live on Zoom, but not from teaching online.”

            “What level do you teach?”

            “College.”

            “Oh, wow!”

            “Yes, well, it sounds more impressive than it is.”
            “At least you’re Gainfully Employed!” Alice calls out from the shower opposite us, her eyes closed with big bubbles of shampoo spilling over her face.

            “Ha!” I laugh. “Barely!”

            “Maybe lowercase?” she jokes.

            “Yes!” I chuckle. “gainfully employed…. or no case…. ainfully or aimlessly or….”

            We all laugh; Alice’s cackle is particularly appreciative.  And, yet, I think, it’s no laughing matter. To have worked at a profession in higher ed for over 30 years with a Master’s degree and too much experience and still barely be able to pay my bills let alone retire is beyond the scope of shower humor.

Chatting with my Spanish tutor from Costa Rica the other night, she’d asked me how old I was in order to practice saying numbers. When I told her I’d be 65 next month, she asked if I was going to retire. I told her, “No; that I’d never have enough money to retire. She expressed disbelief. “In Costa Rica, they force you to retire at 65.”

            “Yes, well, not here in the US. There is no way I can live off the government’s social security that I’ve been contributing to for over 40 years. Maybe I should come live in Costa Rica!” I joke. “It’s cheaper there.”

            “Si,” she agrees. “There are many expatriados who live here in Costa Rica.”

            I think this isn’t such a bad idea. I’m tired of working and not being ‘Gainfully’ employed. I want to celebrate holidays like Martin Luther King Day with a mindful walk in nature up at Wildcat Canyon, contemplating Dr. King’s life and legacy and how much of what he envisioned for People of Color in his future still hasn’t happened. Racism is still rampant in the United States of America.  And, it often seems to only be getting worse.

            What’s the solution? It’s too big for me. And, who am I to say? As a white woman with so much privilege, I can only know what racism is like through the stories my students write down. I am always saddened and appalled by their stories. We need leaders like Dr. King with the vision and charisma to forge a way out from this oppression that People of Color live with every day. I am hopeful that new leaders will rise up and show us the way out of the racism that permeates the systems in this country: education, housing, government.

            Today, as I’m working, I will at least take a moment to think about Dr. King and his message against oppression. Maybe if all of us take a moment to reflect this would be a start.

            Maybe being aimlessly employed will lend itself to such reflection?

            The women are quiet now after the showers. It’s late and everyone is trying to get out of the locker room before the lifeguards start yelling at us to get out, letting us know that our 15 minutes shower and dressing time is over.  Alice and I are the last ones out. As we stumble into the parking lot, a brisk wind whipping our wet hair, she tells me how she’s going to Marin because a friend of hers just died of cancer. I express my sympathy. She says she’s just part of the demographic.

            I watch her lumber towards her black sports car, an aging 280Z, before I hurry over to Mr. Ian, who’s patiently waiting for me, car heater on and Lara bars for snacks.

            “How was your swim?” I ask him, tumbling into the car.

            “It was okay,” he says, starting the engine. “I had to swim next to the wall with the splashy woman.”

            I sigh and smile and bite into the Lara bar as he pulls out of the parking lot and we head out to Safeway, Scott Joplin on the radio in honor of Dr. King.

Chrysanthemum Rag, Joplin, Lara Downs