On Bygone Summer Days

Mother’s Day was the day we welcomed Charlie into the world. Everyone assured me no one gives birth on their actual due date, but somehow my firstborn—after being suctioned out with a vacuum—managed to arrive exactly between 12 and 2 p.m., just like my calendar had suggested.

Charlie’s 24th birthday didn’t line up with Mother’s Day this year, but when he called from Madrid, I reminisced, “This is one of the most important days of my life…” and then—I don’t know exactly where it came from—“You know, I’m sorry…” spilled out.

It was as if this truth—that we just can’t get it all right—needed to be said. Because first children bear the brunt of our unknowingness. (I think they all do, so apologies to dear Joey and Kate, too.)

And someday, they’ll poke holes. Let’s face it, they already do! It’s natural—and necessary. Examining their story and who their parents are (and what we are not) is part of that journey. 

And yet, in an effort to get everything just right for the few nights we’ll all be together this summer, I drove up to HomeGoods last weekend. (I still can’t get over how much I bought for oh-so-very-little.) After I purchased the periwinkle hand towels and a few other unnecessary things, instead of taking a left out of the monstrous parking lot toward the highway, I hung a right toward the quiet neighborhood where the swimming pool we belonged to every summer was.

I remember designating days on my calendar to take the kids out of the city and up to the one pocket of Marin that was always sunny and warm: the Ann Curtis Pool. (I can’t really remember if I would take days off but somehow it worked.) Up to the pool we would go, blue Toyota minivan and all.

But on this day, after my shopping expedition, I came from the opposite direction, made a right on Golden Hinde Road, and drove around the bend. I slowed down, pulled over on the side of the road, and stopped my car. Across the street from me, the pool—like usual—was hidden behind a line of oak trees and a brown fence.

Suddenly, it was as if I was watching a movie. Flooded with memories, I could picture us bombing into the gravel parking lot, dust kicking up, gunning for the first spot closest to the walkway.We got it! We would high-five.

I could picture the puddled floor in the women’s bathroom that we’d always manage to drop something in. Hold on to your towel, Kate! I would shriek.

I could picture our favorite spot behind the grove of trees where we would move the chaise lounges. Hurry, grab that one! I would whisper.

And I could picture the kids—the boys in their matching suits and Kate in some version of pink—take off in a split second before I could get sunscreen on them. You guys! You need sunscreen! I would yell.

There were three different-sized pools, but there was also nothing fancy about the place. In fact, I always felt like we were in someone’s backyard, almost expecting someone to start grilling burgers. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. The only food available was ice cream cups at 3 p.m.

And yet ‘Ann Curtis’ as we called it, was a gift. We weren’t allowed to use phones. All three of them learned to swim here. And other than the twenty-five-minute drive out of the city that included the Golden Gate Bridge toll, the simplicity of the place felt like a throwback.

These days are now not only waaaay over, but if I hadn’t driven down Golden Hinde Road the other day, I may have forgotten these memories altogether.

I worry about that sometimes. Forgetting their childhoods. When I walk into a different room and can’t remember why I went there, I fear it’s inevitable—that one day I’ll forget it all.

But sitting there in that parking lot, it was as if every single left turn into that pool parking lot came rushing back to my body. I could remember the Fourth of July races, the A&W’s root beers I’d let the kids drink (much to Duncan’s chagrin) and even how we jockeyed for spots in the ice cream line.

And of course the endless hours holding Kate in the baby pool—wishing, wondering, hoping it wouldn’t feel so mindless, while somehow knowing it would all be over before I knew it.

Here I sat, more than a decade later, weeping in my car about those bygone summer days.

I looked in my rearview mirror. No cars. 
And the side mirror. All clear.
Nothing was coming up the pike, but I didn’t want to turn around. So I sat there a few minutes longer.

Eventually, I wiped my tears with my white jean jacket, relieved I hadn’t put any foundation on that morning, and made a U-turn.

I headed south on 101 and smiled as I passed the spot where Charlie would always proclaim, “Today, the drawbridge will be down!”

But of course it was up. For the 31 years I’ve lived in the Bay Area, that abandoned rickety drawbridge has always been up.

And yet I bet if I called him in Spain, he’d still say, “Oh it’s definitely down today, Mom!”

Some things, thankfully, never change.

And yet change is what we’re here to do. 

Or as Charlie would probably remind me…what we get to do.