I was walking by
Olympic pool one morning earlier this summer
– the air unusually cool for July, a glorious blue sky filled with white
puffy clouds, the trees casting deep shadows on the lawns. In the distance I
heard the repeated blasts of a swimming coach’s whistle and wanted to glimpse
just one more time the magic of an early morning workout. I peered in to see
kids swimming their laps. Their
glistening arms raised in freestyle, the rhythmic slap of their strokes, the
sun sending sparkles in the cold blue backdrop of the pool. In the air, the familiar
smell of chlorine and the distinctive sound that diving boards make from the
exuberant bouncing of children goofing off. Others mounted their bikes, to ride
home to do chores and then I’m sure as in the case of my brothers and I, back
to the pool for the rest of the day.
There were places
that formed the steady and comforting triumvirate of our childhood, Immaculate
Conception school and church for routine and absolution. Whetstone Park for
gymnastics in the Fall, skating on the casting pond in Winter and of course 4th
of July fireworks but perhaps it was Olympic Pool that defined the sweetest
months of the year – June, July and August.
Olympic represented freedom and belonging.
It was a time when
air conditioning was an unheard of luxury so the pool was our cooling station,
a way to keep the hot humid days of summer at bay. When mothers stayed home to
raise their kids while our dads went off to work. There were understood
designated areas at the pool, on the backside of the expansive grass lawn were
the older ladies with their leathery suntanned skin playing cards, while on the
opposite end our slim mothers lounged at the baby pool with our younger
siblings. Somewhere in between my friends and I played in the huge rectangular
swimming pool until at the end of the day our toes and feet were white and
shriveled.
As we got older we endlessly
went off the 3' and 12' diving boards, then eventually the 16-foot platform – a
rite of passage when you one day found the courage to climb the slippery cement
steps and stand on the edge tentatively peering over.
At age five, my fearless
younger brother scrambled up those very steps, without a moment’s hesitation
walked to the edge and promptly jumped.
Something that had taken me several days at the age of nine with
frequent scooting back down the precarious stairs and then up again until I
finally found my own courage. Eyes scrunched shut waiting for the impact as I
plummeted through the air, arms stiffly held tight to my side before smacking
into the water, going deep underwater before opening my eyes, realizing I had actually
done it.
There were special moments
when the OSU diving team came and used the 32-foot (off-limits to us) platform for
their practices. We kids sat enthralled not minding one bit that the dive pool
was closed to us for the evening.
Watching as acrobatic athletes
performed miracles of grace in the few seconds from lift-off to entering the
pool.
Years later when we
moved to Florida, it was Olympic that was my last clear memory of
Clintonville. Our car stopped at the
crosswalk in front of the pool, watching kids with their towels casually draped
around their necks crossing the street heading toward the splashes and squeals emanating
from within - then the light changed and we drove to the airport to take the
flight to our new home.
And that first
difficult year in Florida missing my comforting leafy neighborhood, missing the
company of familiar places. A time when
I felt like a fish out of water gasping for air - completely out of my element. Walking home from school in the relentless heat
of a gulf coast September, I would imagine Olympic’s deep royal blue diving
pool. Closing my eyes as I struggled on the hot sandy roads - conjuring myself with
outstretched arms slowly falling forward into its cool soothing waters.
After 76 years the
pool is closing. I go on the last day, and there is still a tangible magic to
the place. Earlier in the day, the enormous crowd gathered around both pools
forming a community of linked hands chanting “Olympic, Olympic, Olympic.”
Then the dive pool
became the focus with people gathered six deep all around, everyone shouting
encouragement to those on the platform, mothers anxiously watching their
children’s own rite of passage. A set of sisters in their 60’s go off the
platform together – acknowledging the cheering crowds with queen-like waves
before jumping in. When someone does a flawless dive or a particularly effective
can-opener the crowd erupts in clapping and cheers. And they collectively groan
in a reflexive cringe when an overenthusiastic dive turns into an unintended
belly-flop – its smack reverberating across the pool.
I take photos,
watching the drama play out through the lens of my camera. Across the way I see
a father bend to his daughter, obviously teaching her to keep her arms tight to
her body before going off the board, her face screwed up in deep concentration.
There is the young teenage boy who tries for hours to dive off the platform –
walking away, coming back to the edge again and again. He starts the dive then
his body straightens up as if on autopilot before hitting the water –
disappointment all over his face. But several attempts later when he finally
does a full-on dive the crowd erupts in cheers as proud of him as if he is
their own. We are in this together, this sense of community.
When I was five years
old my grandparents moved away. I walked
by their house every day on my way home from kindergarten knowing somehow in my
heart that something precious and irreplaceable had been lost. Never quite
reconciling myself to the memories that would have been made there, desperately
missing their reassuring presence. I just felt a deep and abiding sense of loss
of what could have been. That is what
the closing of Olympic feels like.
I get it - that this
next generation having never known the utter joy of seemingly floating in air
while performing a swan dive, or the thrill of 12 and 13 year-olds meeting up with
a gang of friends making their first tentative break from childhood, will not
know what they have missed. They won’t miss the sense of accomplishment when
achieving a perfect front flip, or the thrill of winning a swim race, or just
the comfort of the daily routine of walking to the neighborhood pool.
But we know, those
of us raised at that pool, going back to my grandfather’s generation, that
something so intrinsic to a well-lived childhood, an enchanted childhood, has
been lost. We know it and feel it in our bones. It is as if someone beloved has
died leaving an empty place in our hearts.
