Stories

Stories

Free-Range Boys

/

Down in East Tennessee where I grew up, we had the Great Smoky Mountains standing tall out there in the distance. But then we also had “the foothills” which lay between us and the big mountains. In later years they build a fine and scenic road along those ridges called the Foothills Parkway. It has great views of the higher mountains and is a resource often overlooked by visitors. It is also a great bicycle ride.

Down on our side of the foothills was an area known as Montvale Springs. There had been a YMCA summer camp there, and before that a luxury hotel. Local tradition had it that the area was first discovered by Sam Houston, who taught school nearby and later became governor of Texas. Close to the remains of the camp there was Montvale Lake, a small mountain lake with an old concrete dam and cold mountain water.

Morton and I were out there one February day just messing around. We hiked down to the lake and walked out along the top of the dam. We were somewhat at loose ends and looking for something to do. Even something crazy like jumping off that dam and down into that winter-cold water. Fully clothed. Gosh darn!

Someone said, “I dare you” and we jumped. Wheee! Oh my gosh!

The jumping distance to the water was not extraordinary, but the water temperature was. We appeared on the bank in a very short time, but soaking wet and shivering. No one had thought about the lack of any shelter or warmth nearby. It wasn’t long before we were wondering why on earth we had done this.

Why had we?

There was another day with Morton that was quite the opposite of that cold one. It was HOT. We were on the Maryville College campus where my father taught. We were walking around and came near the tall water tank that stood up behind Pearson’s Hall. I never knew if this tank supplied water for just the college, or for the town in general. This question did not concern Morton or myself as we considered this situation and what to do.

We approached the water tank, observing there was no one around. We found that one of the tank’s four legs had a ladder. It might be cooler up high there, yes. We started climbing. Up we went like two young squirrels. The day was looking better now.

From the top of this tank, we had a great view of the college and the town of Maryville. We could see the Blount County courthouse and the line of buildings along Main Street. We also discovered that there was a swinging trap door at the top of the ladder.

It would be locked, of course. We could check on this, though. So, we checked. But, no, it was not locked. We swung open this door and looked down inside.

Yes, there was water. Lots of water. And, yes, there was a ladder going down, just like the one we had come up on. What to do?

It felt cool down there. Cool on this very hot day. This water may have been pumped out of a cool nearby spring.

On this hot day and having already come this far, we climbed down the inside ladder. We hung our clothes on its rungs, and went swimming in our underwear.

I know this does not seem like the right thing to have done. This being the same water that would be coming out of people’s kitchen faucets, filling bathtubs, boiling corn, brushing teeth, filling the dog’s water bowl, and washing hands. And I swear I would never recommend it today to any young boys faced with the same opportunity. “No, boys,” I would say. “Don’t do what I did, and you won’t have to regret it like I do.”

This is just a story, boys. Just something you read about in books and magazines. Go on back to your homework now.

And if a young boy should ask what you are reading about on the internet just now . . . ?

Well . . . I’ll leave that up to you.

Afterword

Some may be wondering how two young boys can be running around like this and unsupervised. Why aren’t their parents looking after them?

In Montgomery County, Maryland, where I used to live, we had a case some years ago where neighbors observed two children walking unaccompanied to a nearby park and called the police. The children, Danielle and Alexander Meitiv, were aged 10 and 6. The parents were brought before the Child Protective Services to explain their neglect. It turns out they were quite good parents who were teaching self-reliance to their children. The case sparked a national debate and was later dropped in some embarrassment. What was accused of being “parental neglect” was actually just the opposite.

In the small East Tennessee town where I grew up in the 1940’s and 50’s, children were not supervised, managed, and watched over as they are now. Kids were expected to entertain themselves, not to be entertained. We walked or rode our bicycles to school unaccompanied. Our parents kept no calendars of activities they had arranged for us. Homework was our responsibility to manage, along with various household tasks, known as “chores.” No chores done meant no allowance money handed out. “Go out and play” was our instruction, and the rest was up to us.

Today’s child rearing experts can find fault with this system, but that’s the way it was. We may have been self-managed and done some things we should not have done, but many of us turned out okay regardless.

Related Resources

Here are some highly regarded books that discuss the overprotection of children and youth and the importance of developing self-reliance:

1. “Free-Range Kids: How to Raise Safe, Self-Reliant Children (Without Going Nuts with Worry)” by Lenore Skenazy
• This book is a pioneering work advocating for the free-range parenting movement. Skenazy argues against the overprotection of children and encourages parents to allow their children more freedom to explore and learn independence.
2. “The Coddling of the American Mind: How Good Intentions and Bad Ideas Are Setting Up a Generation for Failure” by Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt
• Lukianoff and Haidt explore the consequences of overprotection in schools and parenting, discussing how this approach can lead to increased anxiety and decreased resilience among young people. The authors provide insights into how to foster self-reliance and critical thinking.
3. “Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance” by Angela Duckworth
• Although not solely focused on overprotection, this book delves into the importance of resilience, perseverance, and developing a strong character. Duckworth’s research highlights how fostering grit in children can help them become more self-reliant.
4. “The Gift of Failure: How the Best Parents Learn to Let Go So Their Children Can Succeed” by Jessica Lahey
• Lahey, a teacher and parent, discusses the benefits of allowing children to experience failure and learn from it. She argues that overprotection hinders children’s ability to develop self-reliance and resilience.
5. “How to Raise an Adult: Break Free of the Overparenting Trap and Prepare Your Kid for Success” by Julie Lythcott-Haims
• This book provides a critical look at overparenting and offers practical advice for raising self-sufficient and independent children. Lythcott-Haims draws on her experience as a dean at Stanford University to highlight the pitfalls of overprotective parenting.
6. “Simplicity Parenting: Using the Extraordinary Power of Less to Raise Calmer, Happier, and More Secure Kids” by Kim John Payne and Lisa M. Ross
• Payne and Ross advocate for a simpler, less hectic approach to parenting that encourages independence and self-reliance. The book provides strategies for reducing the over-scheduling and overprotection that can stifle children’s development.
7. “Bringing Up Bébé: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting” by Pamela Druckerman
• Druckerman explores the differences between American and French parenting styles, noting how French parents encourage independence and self-reliance in their children from a young age. The book offers insights into fostering a balanced approach to parenting.


 

Subscribing simply means you get an email notification of new posts. Only your email address is needed and it will be used only for this purpose. You can change this back at any time.

You can send an email to Ed Briggs HERE.

You can share this article with others by email or on social media by selecting one of the options below.

Stories

Redemption

/

His name was John P. Murphy. We called him just plain “Murphy,” as I was called just “Briggs” and Morton just “Morton.” I know Murphy worked at the nearby Alcoa Aluminum Plant in Alcoa, Tennessee. I believe he was a supervisor of some kind. The most important thing about him was that he was our scoutmaster, and he was a man we loved and admired. Unlike many of our other adult leaders. No one of us spoke a bad word about Murphy. If you had, you would have been looked at strangely, or worse.

Murphy loved hiking in the mountains. Our small town was right in view of the Great Smoky Mountains, and Murphy took us everywhere. Cades Cove, Silers Bald, Gregory’s Bald, Charlie’s Bunion, Mount LeConte, Balsam High Top, Rich Mountain, Turkeypen Ridge, Thunderhead Mountain, the Ch imney Tops, Hen Wallow Falls, Snake Den Ridge, Spence Field, and many more. Excepting the short and popular “tourist walks” we all scorned.

I thought that Murphy liked me and I know now that he did. But looking back on it, I do believe now that every one of his boys felt the same. Every one of us felt like we were special to Murphy.

Murphy didn’t do discipline. There was no shouting or cussing or demanding. But if he asked us to do something, we did it. If he asked us not to do something, we didn’t do it. Things were that simple.

Then there was the overnight hike to Icy Water Springs.

I see now on the maps that it is called “Icewater Spring.” And that is okay, although inaccurate. It is near the intersection of the Boulevard Trail and the Appalachian Trail, and we parked at Fontana Dam to hike there, sleep in the trail shelter, and come back the next day.

My story begins on the hike back. Morton and I were hiking by ourselves and behind all the others. When we hiked, we preferred to be in the lead up front or bringing up the rear.

So, Murphy and all the others are down the way in front of us, out of sight, maybe some already sitting and resting in the shade at the parking lot. And Morton and I are hiking, talking, not too far to go now, and then we see something there in the woods, and we stop in our tracks.

We see an old car. It is parked in a clearing down off the trail. Is it junk or what, we wonder? We look at each other. It is agreed we must find out. We look and listen all around. No sight or sound of anyone. So, we approach this car.

The car is clearly still in use and also unlocked. But why would it be parked way up here in the woods? A moonshiner maybe? Someone up to no good, for sure. What would be our duty in a case such as that?

We raised the car hood, unhooked all the spark plug wires from the distributor cap, removed the cap and threw it in a nearby bush. Now, no car in those days would ever start or run without its distributor cap. We had taken this car out of service. We had excused it as citizenship but knew it was only mischief.

Then we decided we should get on our way, and did. We put on our packs and started down the trail to join the others in the parking lot.

Wait! There was someone coming up the trail down in front of us. Shit! Better hide. We ran off the trail and into some bushes and were lucky that a mountain man walking the trail had not seen us. Oh shit! He went straight to the old car, which apparently was his car, and he got in and tried to start it. This failed of course. Puzzled, he got out of the car and lifted the hood, immediately seeing the hanging spark plug wires and no distributor cap. He looked around on the ground and saw nothing. And now he was no longer puzzled, he was mad. Mad as hell.

He turned and started back down the trail, going fast. He had remembered the bunch of young boys in the parking lot at the bottom of the trail. One of them had done this. He must hurry before they get away. He will call the police. They will pay for this.

Morton and I discussed what to do. We had no good alternatives. The mountain man blocked our path of escape.

Down at the parking lot the angry man told Murphy what his boys had done to the car. Which one was it? All shook their heads. Is this all of you, the mountain man wanted to know. Well, no, Briggs and Morton had still not arrived. Murphy told the man forcefully that Briggs and Morton would never do such a thing. The mountain man said the Bryson City police were on the way and nobody leaves, and he started back up the trail.

I can still see him coming as if had been filmed and replayed for me to watch over all these years later. He was striding fast, and his big fists were clenched. We were two scarred kids and wanted any way out of this. We came out of hiding and met him and told him we would fix his car and we were sorry, sorry, sorry. For a minute there I thought he was going to beat us up, but the offer to fix the car made a difference. We found the missing part and fixed the car. The man escorted us back down the trail to meet the police. We were put in the police car while Murphy and the other boys watched. I can still see their watching stares, and that of Murphy.

I now think that Murphy had talked with the called policeman before we arrived back with the mountain man. Murphy who was mortified, but still our friend and leader. The Bryson City policeman drove out of the parking lot with us in his back seat. He drove around for awhile and talked with us about what we had done, almost like a Murphy himself. Before he brought us back, he mentioned that the same mountain man who called him had been in his jail before. He knew that man. Then he drove us back and set us free. The mountain man had departed.

I recall no lectures from Murphy. Perhaps he was depending on the policeman for that. But I can recall my deep sense of shame around him for some time afterward. We never thought this little prank would have led to such dire consequences. We had planned to join the group and say nothing about it on the long ride home.

I knew Murphy had liked me before, but I did not know if he would like me any more. Morton and I were both in a repentant state, and it would be a long time before we could joke about this occasion. It would be a long time before I could give up the thought that every time Murphy saw me, he would be thinking about what we had done. I desperately wanted this to change.  And I think it did, and I know when.

It was Youth Sunday at our church. There were to be three youth speakers. I had volunteered and was one of them. Hard to believe, Briggs up there in the pulpit being religious. That seemed as unlikely as getting caught by the mountain man up there with his old car.

It was my first time ever up in a church pulpit addressing a congregation. But I “did good” with my 10 minutes, they said. And it served as my redemption, for looking down into all those faces, the one that mattered most was that of Murphy. Murphy looking up to me.

He was smiling. 


 

You can send Ed Briggs an email HERE

To share this post with others or on social media, select your method below:

Nature Stories

A Rattlesnake Kill on Little Shuckstack

/

 

Down low in the Great Smoky Mountains is
Cades Cove where my wife’s ancestors once lived.
High up above it is Gregory’s Bald, where I
hiked and slept the night as a young Boy Scout.
My very first overnight hike.

And down the far side hovered over Fontana Lake is
Big Shuckstack. There a lookout tower stands tall above
the trees, and rangers gaze out over Sassafras Gap,
Ekaneetlee Creek, Piney Ridge, Proctor Branch, Cheoah
Lake, and Long Hungry Ridge for signs of smoke and
reason to call the fire crew into action.

Lower down still more is Little Shuckstack, the trail so
steep between those two that the knees let you know
right off.

But there on top of little stack is a level stretch
where knees rest, and a rattlesnake might too. Rest there
nearly under some dead leaves about his own color.
Where I hiked alone with thumbs hooked under the
pack straps, just putting one foot in front of the other until
motion caught the corner of the eye, a strange sound
in the ears, and short hairs stood up straight along
the back of the neck as DAMN!
mountain time slowed to frame-by-frame as I
tried to get the legs to MOVE or JUMP or
something, which they finally did.

I landed some distance away.

He was coming after me, NO. He was
watching me, YES.

Back off, he says, I can kill you.

Usually his prey is mice, rats, squirrels, birds, eggs,
lizards, toads, even insects if he has to. Coiled up tight
with his tail raised shaking at one end and his head pointing
fangs at the other. Forked tongue flicking out, eyes shiny
like beads as I felt behind for the hunting knife on my belt.

Maybe throw that knife like Tarzan. Pin his head to the
ground with perfect aim.

Not likely. Or maybe

quick as a cat I could fake him with one hand and then
grab him just behind the head with the other.

A kid like me would think such thoughts, then turn and go
safely looking for a forked stick.

No time to think of animal rights at a time like this.

Approach with the stick as the rattle gets louder and faster,
louder and faster. Just like my heart.

Swipe down there with the stick now. Swing and a miss it was.

Please now, once again for God’s sake and . . . and
THERE . . . got him, pinned down now. Just the head though,
the tail still going strong.

The head is still but the body writhing. My left hand is
going back for the knife as the right hand holds the stick
tight, and tighter.

And now comes the hard part because I must reach down
THERE with him, my bare hand THERE with HIM, and
hope to hell this works as was advised in the book someone
wrote. Someone writing with no snake whatever in sight.

And praise be to God it does work . . . somehow . . . and
the snakes head is OFF, cut clean although the wiggling
snake body doesn’t seem to know it yet.

I should get a merit badge for this, and a big ceremony
too. Mom and Dad both there and proud. What I
thought of in that trembling mountain air where a
snake’s head lay still down there on the ground.

So then I dug and buried that thing as the
Boy Scout manual said to do. Because some
good animal might eat it and get poisoned by that
bad snake.

Animal rights did play some part you see.

And after all those years now gone by, I still have
that rattlesnake’s rattle somewhere in its
proud little box.

It still rattles too.

Afterword

This story from my youth needs a word of explanation. Although the story is true and I did in fact kill that rattlesnake, I do not now advocate their killing. Rattlesnakes perform important natural functions and pose little threat to humans. Rattlesnake bite deaths in the U.S. average 5-6 per year. With firearms in our own hands we kill ourselves and one another at the rate of 40,000 a year, exceeding the 38,000 deaths in car crashes.

I did not need to kill this snake. All I needed to do was say hello there and goodbye and walk on down the trail. I suppose I believed there was something grown-up and manly in my actions. I thought my father and my friends would see it that way.

I needed to add this explanation. I hope it doesn’t ruin the story for you. I do still have his rattler and wouldn’t think of parting with it.


 

To send Ed Briggs an email click HERE. To share this post select an option below.

Stories

Me and PeeDab

/

About 10 minutes into my run I happened to notice a beautiful naked woman lying right at my feet.  I do see interesting things on my runs, especially in this nearby park with its deer and squirrels and herons and beavers and people having picnics and throwing frisbees.  But this was the first time I had seen a naked woman along my route. 

I picked her up to get a better look.  She was in a magazine called “The Girls of Penthouse.”  But why had she been discarded? And in this park of all places?  One does not often discard a naked woman.

Finding her recalled a boyhood experience on a Scout hike with Milton Bardin, who was known to us all as PeeDab.  I am guessing at how “PeeDab” should be written since I never saw it in that form.  PeeDab and I were friends because our dads were friends and teaching at the same college.  We never agreed about who saw the magazine first, but I know it was me.  The name of the magazine was “Eyefull.”  It was lying right beside the road we were hiking on. It had no actual naked women, but it did have the closest thing either of us had seen at the time.

You don’t know quite what to do with a naked woman you pick up off the ground.  Especially if you have 6 miles of running still ahead of you.  Nice as a naked woman is, you probably don’t want to carry one all that distance.  But I did roll mine up and carried her as I resumed my run, unsure about what to do next.

PeeDab and I had not been unsure about the Eyefull magazine.  I would grab it from him and start looking, and then he would grab it back and do the same.  Although we disagreed about who had found it or whose turn it was, we agreed on its value.  It was priceless and would be kept forever.

Eyeful was a men’s magazine published by Robert Harrison, starting in March 1943. The magazine had a bi-monthly, 65 issue run, ending April 1955. It was popular with soldiers during the latter years of World War II.  Its popularity dropped sharply after the initial publication of Playboy magazine in 1953. Playboy featured nude center-folds, which Harrison refused to do, and so Playboy soon put him out of business.

PeeDab and I knew nothing about Robert Harrison, but we could have advised him on the issue of nude center-folds.

It is hard to run and study naked women at the same time.  In a short while the woman had been moved about a mile from her original spot.  It crossed my mind to discard her in the woods beside the trail.

The Eyefull magazine was kept hidden in the traditional spot beneath the mattress, shoved far enough so Mother wouldn’t find it making up the bed.  Mother would not understand about the Eyefull magazine.

There were few people in the park that day, but I did keep thinking about meeting up with someone.  I rolled the magazine tightly enough to pass for Newsweek.  But still it seemed funny to be carrying a magazine while running.

When the Eyefull magazine was there under my mattress it meant it wasn’t under PeeDab’s mattress.  So I knew to expect that he would want it back.  And we would argue about whose turn it was and who had kept it the longest.

I decided not to put the magazine in the woods.  There was a nice, shady spot along the trail beside the lake, and I laid it down there in plain view.  Perhaps a young boy will come along and give it a good home.    


 

Commentary Stories

Light-nosed

/

I met this man who trains dogs to sniff out explosives.  They call them bomb dogs.  He does this for the police department in Washington, D.C.  Of course, a lot of people both home and abroad would like to plant explosives in Washington, D.C. our nation’s capitol.  Even some people who work there in-and-out seem to want to blow the place up. It isn’t clear these dogs can save the day, but who knows?

The man I talked with told me they get the dogs from Germany, and a fully trained dog is worth over a hundred thousand dollars.  One reason is that it takes the trainer a year of full time work to get a dog ready.  An untrained dog will smell all the smells there are, and there are so many it must be hard to get a dog focused on the few things a bomb can smell like.

The trainer I talked with said they get very attached to their dogs, and the dogs to them. He said they even get bereavement leave if their dog dies or gets killed.  He said the thing that makes a bomb dog’s day is to do his job well and have the trainer pet him and tell him he’s a good dog.  But it has to be the trainer telling him that.  Anyone else tells him “good dog” and he’ll say “well who the heck are you?”  He has one master, and what the master says about his work is the only thing that matters. Bomb dogs are very clear about this.

It must be hard, working every day as a bomb dog. You’re trained you to go in where the bombs are so people don’t have to. People used to do this themselves, but now they have you to do it so they can stay safe. 

So you have to work alone in there where a bomb may be.  You have to make your own decisions.  There’s no such thing as calling over a fellow dog and asking him to take a whiff please.  Ask him what this smells like to him.  Have a conference on it there like those umpires do when they throw down their little flags.  They huddle together and try to decide why they did that.  But these dogs have to make the decision alone and in a hurry.

And speaking of in a hurry, it would be easy to get heavy-nosed while in a hurry. The bombs are lying there just waiting for a heavy-nosed dog to set it off. A bomb dog can’t get heavy-nosed or he won’t be staying on the bomb squad long. Rush in there and hard nose right down on a bomb and BOOM! His trainer who spent a year just with him wouldn’t appreciate this. Instead of “good dog” he’d be hearing something else.  Or hearing nothing at all. His memorial service would get scheduled.

When you’re in an explosive situation, the first thing you have to do is stay light-nosed.

Think about this.


 

Stories

Advice Not Taken

/

I went out running the neighborhoods on a Saturday afternoon. Soon after I started I heard the sound of helicopters overhead and discovered they were spraying. 

It gives you a funny feeling to be running along and have a helicopter fly over you and spray you.  But I kept on running.  And after awhile I came upon the woman who was directing all this.

She had a balloon way up in the air on the end of a rope and was sitting in her car with a radio talking in the sky with the helicopters.  I noticed she had all her car windows rolled up, hot as it was. 

She saw me coming and got out of her car as if something important was up.  She met me in the road and I thought maybe she wanted directions to somewhere else in the neighborhood.  Since I run these streets all the time I could have helped her with that.

But instead of this she had advice.  She said “It’s not a good time to be out running, because we’re spraying.”  And I thought fast and said, “Well, it’s not a good time to be out spraying, because I’m running.”  And I suppose we each had a point.

Well, they kept right on spraying. And I kept right on running.  And I’m alive to write about it all these years later.  So I guess no harm was done to me, and certainly not to them. 

People who try to tell you what to do may have a balloon and seem official, but think twice before you mind them. When you need to run, just run.

Commentary Humanity Stories

Meeting A Woman at the Pool

/

I drove to the pool with maybe a few problems on my mind. Eighteen strokes to the lap, thirty-six laps to the mile, half an hour of hard exertion, counting down, counting down.

My left hand is getting better. It used to start the pull too soon. The timing now is even and the stoke is smooth. It has taken years of daily swimming to accomplish this.

But what a feeling! To glide to the wall that last lap and let the body go loose. Let it hang free while the breathing slows to normal. While the day begins to form again, and the arms pull me up. Feet go under and the legs lift, and I am now like people suppose they were meant to be instead of swimming in water like a frog or fish. Hands take off the goggles and rub the eyes.

I headed for the small pool in the corner where you sit in hot water that churns at you from all sides. Good for the circulation but don’t stay too long and don’t use if you have a bad heart, they say. And I found a woman there, a woman all alone.

She was a friendly woman. Smiling and saying hello and wanting to talk. Talk I do not remember not much of, as you will soon understand.

For what I kept from that day till now was the sight of her body. Her body I tried not to be caught looking at. But whenever her head turned, or I dared a glance, I did look. Over and over I looked, as if forced and powerless.

And what I saw more of, each time, was always what I knew from the first. That she was a dying woman here in this water. Of cancer that was somewhere, maybe everywhere. A body looking dead already. As if nothing were left between her bones and the covering skin. Nothing.

It made me look strangely at the parts of myself I could see along with her parts. Mine were no stuff for a magazine cover, yet what a contrast. As if I were rich and famous and beautiful now. A different class of person from her. It felt good and bad both. Proud at first, then guilty. Conspicuous even, as if I was the one who should hide myself from view, not her. The lesser person there, and not the better one.

And I remembered there those troubles I’d brought. They came at me with a vengeance, as she smiled her bright smile, and chatted about the water and how nice the day was. Then said goodbye, pulling up to leave. And was sadly beautiful as she made her way.

 

Alcohol Places Stories

Breakfast in Payson

/

I’m a big fan of Garrison Keillor. He once said that if you drive around the country, stop in small towns, and sit down with the locals in their breakfast cafe, you never know when you may hear something interesting, surprising, or even profound. John Steinbeck also believed that. He took his dog and drove across America, talking with ordinary people and collecting stories. They went into a thoughtful and entertaining book titled “Travels With Charley.”

payson azWell . . . I came to the desert town of Payson, Arizona. I ordered breakfast in a small diner there beside the road. The adjoining booth was occupied by a local man, sitting by himself, talking on his cellphone, his voice lowered. He had long, unkept hair and a long, unkept beard. His clothes looked as worn and tired as he did, and his speech had the lingering of alcohol about it. I heard him use the word “innebriated,” a term less confessional and more respectable than the word “drunk.” But meaning the same, of course.

The man was talking with a woman. You could tell she was someone he missed, someone he owed something to, someone he needed to have around and planned to see again.

The man was doing most of the talking, mostly about nothing, until the end of the conversation. The woman on the line had apparently said, “I love you.”

Now, a man in those circumstances must say something. As a man myself, I know about this moment, that pause that needs a response, as the woman awaits one. I didn’t expect a memorable response from this man, but I heard one.

There was a moment of hesitation, and then: “I love you . . . no matter what I say or do.” …

Breakfast in PaysonRead More »

Health People Stories Swimming

Surprised By Gratitude

/

Each weekday morning I go to the swimming pool to, well, swim.  I usually swim three miles, which takes me about an hour and a half. The lanes at my pool are 25 yards long. It takes 5,250 of these yards to make a three mile swim. That’s 105 laps, a lap being down to the end and back. Often I get in the water and swim non-stop. Now many of my fellow swimmers swim faster than me, but not many swim longer or farther. I catch views of others as I swim. Many do a few laps and then hang on the sides of the pool talking. Many of them spend more time talking in the water than swimming in it. When I observe this, I feel proud to be such a dedicated swimmer.

New Yorker swimming pool coverThese are my fellow swimmers. But there are a lot of others taking up water space in the pool who are not swimmers. I call them the splashers. They get in the water to wade, chat, clap, bounce, float, splash, act silly, and dance around. Often they do these things in groups and with an overweight leader, and to loud and lively music. I think they pay money to join these groups, and they probably imagine they’re getting in shape by doing this. From the looks of most of them, they have a long way to go. The New Yorker captured this phenomenon in a recent cover illustration. Count the number of individuals who are actually swimming, despite the inspirational image on the front wall. (click to enlarge the picture and better appreciate)

The men’s locker room at our pool is a communal place. There are no privacy curtains or individual shower stalls. We dress and undress and shower together; we hear and overhear conversations; we may not speak with others, but we do hear and observe things.

On morning I was there getting dressed and I heard loud panting and wheezing. I looked around the corner and there was a large, overweight, out-of-shape man trying to put on his clothes. Even putting on socks was a great effort for him. His breathing was so labored that I wondered how he could swim at all. Lazy bastard! I imagined him lounging on the sofa, watching TV, and eating potato chips and ice cream and drinking beer. I assumed he was one of the splashers. Why did he even bother coming here? …

Surprised By GratitudeRead More »

Scroll to Top