Kind Words

A young fellow crossed under three floating lane dividers at the pool today to talk to me. I thought, “Oh, no, what have we done wrong now?” “I just wanted to tell you,” he began, “that I think it is a wonderful thing that you bring your son to the pool. He does so well. I’ve been coming for a year now and it’s so good to watch him swim.”

“Thank you for your kind words,” I blubber.

“I’ll bet it’s good for you too, isn’t it?” he said in parting.

“Definitely.” I wanted to share with him my poem entitled “I thought I was Teaching my Son” but I just smiled. 

You know what? I love kind people. What does it cost?

A few years ago, a burly tattooed man at the pool visited with us telling us that he took seminary with Eddy.

Upstairs at the machines, a woman comes over and says Hi to Eddy. She said she was his bus driver in elementary school (nearly 40 years ago).  Her name gradually came to me: Barbara Ortega. We used to sit on the guard rail out on Fairfield and wait for the bus. We liked to throw rocks into the hollow while waiting.

On the other hand, I’m in Fine Arts Club with one of his old school teachers and she doesn’t remember him at all. Of course, she doesn’t remember her own kids and she asks me who I am three times while we’re talking and she’s telling me her memory is improving. We were in the Ward with her when we first moved out here in 1969 and I’ve been in club with her a couple of times.

From “I Thought I was Teaching My Son”:

I thought I was teaching

my son about health and exercise

as I took him to the gym,

where I got addicted

to aerobics

and sold on swimming.