Steam rises from our swimming pool. It’s mid-October, and yes, it’s strange we splashed around until now in Minnesota and foolhardy we heated the water until yesterday. Husband drained many inches last night in preparation for the end of the season. The guys who end our fun are arriving today to do their work. They’ll empty the lines, shoot antifreeze into them, cap them off, and stretch the cover tight. But let’s tell it like it is: They’re coming to embalm our beloved, close the lid on her casket, and inter her body until spring. All we have left now of swim season 2025 are our memories.
So, would you like a little pool story today? I thought so.
One afternoon in July, I dove into the water. Husband was on his way to join me in the pool, but something detained him in the house for a few minutes, so I swam alone. Rays of sunlight glinted off the turquoise surface. I noted its clarity, thanks to Husband’s keen eye and fastidious upkeep. And then I saw it: a single leaf floating in the deep end. I swam over to it to fling it out, but as I approached, it propelled itself toward me with a remarkable clip.
Close enough now to the leaf, I saw it wasn’t. Instead, it was a tiny mouse, and he paddled right for me. Was he hoping I would rescue him? He was close now—close enough for me to see his O-shaped lips breathing like a student of the Lamaze technique.
Disgust zinged through me, and I shrieked, dodged him, and swam to the edge of the pool. It must’ve been the adrenaline coursing through my body because I was able to pull myself out of the deep end cleanly—no ladder needed and no struggling to swing a leg over the edge first.
Shuddering, I jogged to the net and dragged it across the water’s surface to snare the tiny swimmer. Once inside, he clung to the netting with four clawed feet. I walked him to the wooded area and lowered the net to the grass. Still inside, he released his grip and slabbed over, his flanks heaving as he caught up on oxygen and rest.
After a minute, the little guy regained his bearings and wobbled to standing. Trembling, he climbed over the net’s rim to freedom and teetered off into the trees.
I replaced the net as Husband emerged from the house. He had heard my scream, he said. I relayed the story, regaling him with its harrowing details. At the end of my narrative, though, he said he would’ve chosen a different course of action.
Well.
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*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka and their husbands, Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr.