Swimming is hands down the number one summer activity. With no swimming pool of our own, we used to call the Rice neighbors down the gravel road, and we were never turned away. We knew who had pools and who would refuse, so the bigger all-day activity was going to the lake.
The westside had no lakes. It was a long drive, but we had three choices: Enid, Sardis or Grenada. First call was to my uncle who managed our farm to find us an old inner tube. It couldn’t be too big because he had to air it up at the shop and squeeze it into the trunk or back seat.
The shop was the blacksmith shop with the large anvil and dirt floor, mule harnesses and wooden things connecting the mule team. They had names. They hang on my wall for decorations now but they were essential then. The shop smell was axle grease strong. All business hard work axle grease strong. We had mules back then and maybe one tractor, I’m not sure, but several mules.
Hunting down our swimsuits was easy because they were new each year. Seemed to be made of cotton with no stretch material for little girls and maybe the older girls. I don’t exactly remember, except the need for mama to add padding to the top to fill out the suit with these foam rubber falsies, they were called. When you got wet, these foam things would fill with water like a sponge. If not careful, they would often drift out on their own and float to the surface causing much embarrassment.
The swim caps mom and my older sisters wore at first were just straight slick rubber white caps. Hard to stick long hair into with a chin strap and snap that did not keep your long hair completely dry or add any attractiveness to your attempt to be noticed by whomever you were trying to get to notice you. In later years, the ruffled swim caps in wild colors became all the rage. They looked like individual flower pedals instead of a slick bald head. Mom and the sisters now had fancy hats.
There was usually a bait shop/gas station near each lake where we would stop and get suntan lotion — emphasis on tan, not screen. Hanging from the ceiling were bright blow-up swim donut floats and new long blow-up rafts and beach balls with segments of primary colors. The smell of new plastic and suntan lotion was intoxicating because it made us spend a ton of my Paw Paw’s money, but it was worth it not to have those black inner tube scrape wounds from the air nozzle.
I remember the sisters bringing a camera and posing in their swimsuits and trying to pose me. They were 13 and 15 years older, so I should be grateful for the attention. I was mama’s last baby. Wherever mama went, I went.
When my sisters left home and I was older, a friend told me about going into town on certain days and catching the bus to Charleston to swim in the city pool. They had rules and bossy people enforcing the rules. I think you needed 10 cents and that got you a towel and entry ticket. Then there was a changing area. The strict rule of stepping into two divided cement basins on the floor was carefully controlled. First was water, I think, then was enough bleach to kill any known cooties in Tallahatchie County and three surrounding counties. They counted how long you stood in the bleach water.
Rules of a pool were foreign to me. They had deep and shallow ends, a no peeing rule, and lifeguards with whistles. I was intimidated by the bleach lady; she seemed harsh. To this day, I reluctantly purchase bleach for my home cleaning, but if you have a cooty, what can you do?
I miss swimming, but not enough to get sand on my behind or bleach on my feet. Still, those were good times.
