The Fish

“Do we really have to wait 30 minutes?” my brother Marc and I whined in unison.

“That’s the rule,” Mom quickly reponded, “You know it’s the rule. Why are you asking me that again?”

Marc was licking some leftover jelly from the corner of his mouth as I continued the protest.

“I don’t believe its true.”

“What’s that?” Mom asked, clearly thinking the debate was over and I’d moved on to a different subject.

“That you have to wait 30 minutes after you eat before you can swim,” doubling over and clutching my stomach, “or your going to get stomach cramps … and drown.” With that, I slid off my seat and onto the ground, jerking violently a few times before exhaling loudly and closing my eyes.

Mom didn’t miss a beat.

“It doesn’t matter now does it?” she said, retrieving our lunch dishes from the counter and placing them in the sink.

Still feigning death, I said nothing. I heard her footsteps and she made her way from the sink to where I was laying.

Peeking out of the corner of my left eye, I could see her making a shooing motion with both of her hands. “So,” she said, “I don’t care what the two of you do until then, but I don’t want you doing it here.”

Rising to my feet, “How can the truth not matter?” my tone indignant.

“It’s the Kendrick’s pool and Mrs. Kendrick sets the rules.”

“Rrrrr,” I grumbled loudly, and with head bowed and hunched shoulders, silently marched out the front door, dragging both feet the entire way.

Despite growing up in sunny, southern California, my family didn’t have a swimming pool. Lucky for me and my brother, our neighbor one house north, did — a beautiful, 20 by 40 foot pool with a legit deep end, water slide, and competition diving board.

During the summer months — with the exception of Sundays — Mrs. Kendrick opened the pool to the kids on our cul-de-sac. We knew we were welcome when a brightly colored Japanese wind sock could be seen hanging in the flag pole mount on her front porch.

I couldn’t count the number of times my brother or I ran out of our house over the years to check whether “the fish was out” — often, several times in a day. When it was, and we showed up beach towel-in-hand, Mrs. Kendrick would never fail to ask how long it had been since we’d eaten. Even a minute shy of a half hour and we’d be forced to wait — not only that, but sit in “time out” an extra 15 minutes for not being forthcoming.

Over the years, I continued to complain to my Mom, but I didn’t lie to and never debated Mrs. Kendrick. The truth, I accepted, was less important than swimming.