Camp Pop-Pop Redux

In 2019, I continued the education of my four youngest grandchildren ages 12, 10, 8, 7. It was the best summer of their lives and mine, too.

Their Dad was a facility manager for a condo residence complex, and one of the perks was that we could use the super nice, saltwater pool. So just about every nice-weather weekday, I would load the clan into my car for pool day.

On the way, we had to sing, loudly, of course. In between ditties like Wheels on the Bus and Who Are the People in Your Neighborhood, I’d throw in a few loud, off-key lines from the Beatles, Figoro, Pagliacci, and Barber of Seville. Young voices strained to match mine.

At the pool, all learned to jump into the shallow end. Fortunately, Pop-Pop was always there to make sure the youngest (shortest) came back up to the surface. I quickly learned that it is not a natural instinct.

The two oldest, who could swim, soon were bored and went to the deep end with a lifeguard nearby. The others began swimming lessons. A few times, we all rafted arm-in-arm, and I towed all through the deep end. Naturally, the youngest wanted to swim by herself there. Maybe next year.

This was our routine, weather permitting, for the summer. I looked forward to it as much as they did. By the end of the summer, all four could swim. They also learned how to push Pop-Pop into the pool (unexpectedly), and make new friends, too.