Pool Dad

My kids hijacked my column last week, so this is a memory column about my Dad, and that means thinking about swimming pools. When we moved to Atlanta in 1971, we moved into suburbia from the countryside. My parents really upgraded our lifestyle, because the house had an in-ground swimming pool. It was like the Clampett’s, but we could actually swim! “So he loaded up the truck and they moved to Beverly…Hills that is, swimming pools, movie stars.”

We moved in at the end of August, so there wasn’t a lot of time to enjoy the pool that first year. But enjoy it we did over the successive years. Many of my memories of my Dad are pool related. Mostly good memories, but some not.

From a kid perspective, it was great. From a father perspective, I’m not so sure. The filter for the pool was in the basement. It was an iron monstrosity certainly installed during the Neolithic Age, and frankly didn’t work so well. Dad relented after a few years and bought a new filter, and we installed it in the backyard by the pool. That’s where I learned a little plumbing, because I had the job of hooking it up. But Dad and I worked on it together—a great memory—and instantly the water cleared up and stayed that way. Until it rained. Or got hot. Which it does in Atlanta all summer long.

We had a gunite pool, basically concrete. We constantly cleaned and painted it to keep it looking nice, and one year Dad’s ladder slipped in the deep end and he came crashing down into the deep end. It was a serious fall, he was beat up pretty bad—had broken ribs and a massive hematoma under his chin. Mom was ready to fill the pool in with dirt at that point.

For a mere four months of pleasure, a pool can be aggravating to maintain, but it also gives me memories. Seeing my Dad float around on a doughnut float, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, while trying to drink an adult beverage. Watching him splash his granddaughters a little, and them splashing him a lot. Oh yeah, constant sunburns for me, for which I’m paying the price now.

Dad derived great pleasure out of seeing kids have fun. He gave us a life he never had. We got to be kids. He knew that there was plenty of time for ‘adulting’ (Alden’s lingo for being grown up) later. He let us be kids. Sure, he taught us a lot along the way, but mostly we got to be kids.

That’s what fathers should do. Kids shouldn’t worry about where their next meal was coming from. Though he did. Kids shouldn’t have to lie to the rent man. Like he did. Kids should have home stability. He didn’t. His childhood was pretty rough. But his kids weren’t going to ever worry about anything. And we didn’t, other than the customary teenage drama we inflicted on ourselves.

Thank you Dad for the life I lived, the memories, the lessons, the patience, the forgiveness, and mostly the love. You gave us your all. It was amazing then, and I still marvel at what you did for us.

Kelly Burke was born in Knoxville where he spent his younger years, followed by high school years in Atlanta where he graduated from Georgia Tech. He then graduated from Mercer Law School. He has been in private practice, a magistrate judge, and an elected district attorney. He writes about the law, politics, music and Ireland. He and his wife enjoy gardening, playing with their Lagotto Ramanolo named George Harrison, and spending time with their grandchildren.