Dirt Clods and Other Swell Stuff
		Swimming Lessons

	I’m positive the unheated Ritzville swimming pool was filled with water
piped directly from arctic glaciers.  The first day the pool was open for the summer
always brought 50 degree air and water temperatures.  Nobody wanted to swim
until the water warmed up to at least 70 degrees.  But swimming lessons started
on that first day.  
	Every kid that entered the water turned Smurf blue and instantly froze in
place.  The local hospital doubled their medical staff for the first week of swimming.
	I hated swimming lessons!  Why?  I couldn’t swim!  Makes sense doesn’t
it?  First, I was afraid I’d drown.  Second, every lesson stole time from my baseball
career.
	“Hold on to the gutter with both hands.  Let your legs and body float up then
kick your legs,” Jughead, the instructor barked at 25 terrorized Munchkins.
	To get your body and legs to float up you have to take your feet off the
bottom and put your face into the water.  Hello!!!  This is how people drown you
idiot!  I ain’t doing it.
	Sis was too stupid and scared so she did it the first time.  
	“Do it, Mac.  It’s easy,” she said repeatedly.
	“Shut up you little snot,” I yelled.  “It’s your fat little butt that floats you to the
top.  I don’t have one.”
	By the end of the first week of lessons only three of us remained
unconverted, me, Rock and Duncan.  Jughead said he was going to take us to the
deep end of the pool where we could not touch bottom next week.  
	Out of fear, Duncan caught on over the weekend.  Rock was made of
granite, hence the nickname.  Have you ever seen granite float?  He didn’t show
up the following Monday.  I, on the other hand, was present for Monday’s test
because Iron Mom coerced me with threats worse than drowning.
	While the other 22 “swimmers” remained in the shallow end learning
how to stroke properly, Chicken Little, that would be me, went to the deep water.
Jughead was in the water holding my legs near the surface while I, still holding
onto the gutter, started to kick feebly.  
	“Great,” the instructor said.  “Now kick harder.”
	Okay, you asked for it Jughead.  I began kicking harder with the idea that
a kick to his mid-section or below would bring an end to this torture.  
	His ploy worked.  I was kicking so hard that I didn’t realize I was no longer
holding on to the gutter with white knuckles.  I had kicked myself to near exhaustion
and gone limp.  Suddenly, I was floating by myself.  The gutter was about two feet
away.  Panicking, I swung my arms forward, one after the other until I reached the
gutter.
	“Great job, Mac,” Jughead praised.  “Let’s try it again.”
	Holding the gutter, I took a deep breath, laid out face down in the water
and let go.  I did it again.  I floated out then stroked my way back to the side of the
pool.
	In a weak moment later that morning I said to Sis, “I love swimming
lessons!”  Big mistake!  What I meant was I love swimming, but certainly not the
lessons.  
	Sis blabbed and Mom signed us up for two more weeks of lessons.  As I
said before, swimming lessons seriously cut into my baseball career.