Die, pool. Die
There are things I want to die.
Fireants. I want them to die. All of them and their stinging little asses and the welts they leave behind. They're like street gangs. Anything touches their mound and they swarm out, kill it and drag it into the colony and pull it apart. Eat it. That's what they do.
Cockroaches, they can die, too. In South Carolina, there's the palmetto bug. It's big, and it can fly. I don't mind them outside, but I want the ones that find their way into our bedroom to die. Ever have one walk over your skin when you're sleeping? It's creepy and it sucks. And you'd want them all to die. Fast.
I recently added our pool to the death wish list. Pools are great the first year. Maybe the second. After that, you can hear it sucking the money out of your wallet. And when one of our dogs recently fell through the cover, that was it. Done deal. The pool must die.
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I couldn't wait to tear it down. It would free up $800 a summer and countless hours of maintenance. So when the family unanimously voted, it was dead pool walking the very next morning. First, the pump and filter came down. Then it was the posts and caps and railings. A few days later, when all the water was drained, I started rolling up the wall (yes, an above ground pool; we're not rich).
Funny thing happened, though, when I cut the liner to drain the last few inches. A sense of loss fell on me as the utility knife slid through the plastic. Suddenly, I felt the passage of time. The pool, for all it's aggravation, represented my kids' youth. And though they're still 13 and 16, I was suddenly aware how quickly time has passed. It was like we just built it yesterday. Now it felt like that last game of Little League or the last time you go to summer camp. It was over. Forever. And it went just like that.
A few years ago, our dog, Samu, had to be put down. She was old and had gone into a seizure and wasn't coming out of it. So at midnight, I took her to the animal hospital. I held her while the vet inserted the needle and Samu convulse once, stiffened, and then her chest fell for the last time. The vet asked if I needed some time with her. Now I didn't expect to get emotional, but when Samu stopped breathing I suddenly recalled all the memories of her as a puppy and when the kids would play with her. When she was full of life. And now, it was over. I sat in that office and wept.
It ends, just like that.
I didn't cry when the pool went down. But I had the sense that when I turned around I'd be walking my daughter down the wedding isle. It would happen, one of these days. But for now, it was just the pool.
Carefully, I rolled the wall up and gently gathered the components into the corner of the yard. It was over. I didn't cry. But I didn't cheer it's death like I do a mound of fireants. Instead, I laid it to rest.
Fireants. I want them to die. All of them and their stinging little asses and the welts they leave behind. They're like street gangs. Anything touches their mound and they swarm out, kill it and drag it into the colony and pull it apart. Eat it. That's what they do.
Cockroaches, they can die, too. In South Carolina, there's the palmetto bug. It's big, and it can fly. I don't mind them outside, but I want the ones that find their way into our bedroom to die. Ever have one walk over your skin when you're sleeping? It's creepy and it sucks. And you'd want them all to die. Fast.
I recently added our pool to the death wish list. Pools are great the first year. Maybe the second. After that, you can hear it sucking the money out of your wallet. And when one of our dogs recently fell through the cover, that was it. Done deal. The pool must die.
[image error][image error]
I couldn't wait to tear it down. It would free up $800 a summer and countless hours of maintenance. So when the family unanimously voted, it was dead pool walking the very next morning. First, the pump and filter came down. Then it was the posts and caps and railings. A few days later, when all the water was drained, I started rolling up the wall (yes, an above ground pool; we're not rich).
Funny thing happened, though, when I cut the liner to drain the last few inches. A sense of loss fell on me as the utility knife slid through the plastic. Suddenly, I felt the passage of time. The pool, for all it's aggravation, represented my kids' youth. And though they're still 13 and 16, I was suddenly aware how quickly time has passed. It was like we just built it yesterday. Now it felt like that last game of Little League or the last time you go to summer camp. It was over. Forever. And it went just like that.
A few years ago, our dog, Samu, had to be put down. She was old and had gone into a seizure and wasn't coming out of it. So at midnight, I took her to the animal hospital. I held her while the vet inserted the needle and Samu convulse once, stiffened, and then her chest fell for the last time. The vet asked if I needed some time with her. Now I didn't expect to get emotional, but when Samu stopped breathing I suddenly recalled all the memories of her as a puppy and when the kids would play with her. When she was full of life. And now, it was over. I sat in that office and wept.
It ends, just like that.
I didn't cry when the pool went down. But I had the sense that when I turned around I'd be walking my daughter down the wedding isle. It would happen, one of these days. But for now, it was just the pool.
Carefully, I rolled the wall up and gently gathered the components into the corner of the yard. It was over. I didn't cry. But I didn't cheer it's death like I do a mound of fireants. Instead, I laid it to rest.
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