I don’t remember learning to swim. It seems I’ve always known how, I must have learned in Marigold Pond where my Dad took us often on hot summer evenings. I’ve never heard any of my hometown friends refer to the pond, and I wonder if that was its official name or just something my parents had made up. The pond was one of two on a farm not far out of town. One pond was located in a cattle pasture and an earth dam separated it from the smaller pond that was reserved for swimming. Both ponds were spring-fed, and while fairly shallow, the water was always cold and fresh.
Dad refused to swim in the town’s swimming pool, citing too much chlorine and too many kids peeing in the water, so we often went, on weekends, to one of the lakes located near Oskaloosa or Indianola. During the week, he was happy to settle for sandwiches and iced tea on the fine sand of the beach at Marigold Pond and a cooling swim before dusk.
We girls would be dressed in our swimsuits, with towels and our summer pajamas bundled in the trunk of the car for after our swim. Marigold was not far out of town, but once we got to the farm trail that led across a field, up a steep hill and through a patch of timber, then around one side of the cattle pond, we always became anxious. The track was on a side-hill and we were unnecessarily alarmed by the notion that the car might tip over and roll down the slope. We crowded nervously to the high side of the back seat, imagining that our combined weight could keep the car balanced and prevent such a tragedy.
A large tree grew on the dam that separated the ponds, and hanging from one of its branches was a long rope with an old tire attached. Braver swimmers than my sisters and I could swing out over the pond and drop into the water with a great splash. Before anyone could go into the water, however, there was a matter of dealing with green duckweed that often covered most of the surface of the pond. Someone had constructed a “net” of screen wire attached to poles that could be dragged from one side of the pond to the other, effectively skimming most of the floating plantlets from the surface and trapping them there while we swam.
The cold pond water soon had us huddling under towels on the small beach, warming up and drying off before it was time to return to the car parked in the nearby timber where one more treat awaited us. We would shed our swimsuits, dry off, and don our pajamas while Mother packed away the remains of our picnic supper and Dad pulled, from the trunk of the car, a long rope with a straw-filled burlap sack attached. He would climb partway up a tall nearby tree and throw one end of the coiled rope over a branch that hung out over the clearing. He would then pull the rope until the sack-swing was suspended just a few feet above ground and tie the loose end securely to the trunk of the tree, then pull the swing high into the tree and let it drop slowly.
When he was satisfied that the rope would not slip or become caught on an adjacent limb, he would announce that it was time for “elevator” rides up into the high branches. Mother always got the first ride. I don’t know if it was a test to be sure it was safe for us girls, or if she truly enjoyed making that trip, but she rode all the way up until her head nearly touched the big limb supporting the rope, than came down laughing, in a series of rapid drops and sudden stops that caused the sack to twist and swing gently.
We girls each got two rides into the treetop and it never occurred to us that hauling us all up so high twice each was quite a lot of effort for Dad, and that it might nearly undo the benefits of his cooling swim. The drive home through the twilight, with the car windows open to create a gentle breeze, was leisurely with Mother and Dad talking quietly in the front seat and we girls comfortably cool and relaxed in the back. More often than not we were asleep before we reached home.