Diving In

I'm six years old and I'm standing at the end of a diving board. The swimming pool is at Uncle Bob and Aunt Ann's house. As long as I can remember, we've spent summer Sunday afternoons swimming in their pool. It's not a big pool, maybe fifteen feet by ten. The deep end is less than eight. The house itself isn't large. It's one of those post WWII tract homes south of the Texas Tech campus built to accomodate young families on the GI bill.

"Just jump in," Dad urges me. "Be a big girl. You're not coming back this way. The only way out is off the end of that board."

It was a test of wills. I'd stand at the end of the board shivering and wet -- and then, as I became sun-dried and toasty, the dread of sudden cold wet water was even more unappealing than the distance down to that water. I had a double reason not to jump.

I don't remember happy endings to these stand-offs. There were usually tears. Mine. Sometimes I suppose I jumped. Other times Mom would intervene. "The steaks are ready, Sam. Let her come down." There was never a feeling of triumph either way. If I did jump, I'd taken too long to do it. If I didn't...well, someday I'd just have to "grow up."

I'm standing on the end of that diving board right now. I don't know that I really want to do this. Jumping into past history -- that water can be pretty cold. There may be tears. Maybe I can come off the board and just start by sticking my toes in gradually? Let's see.