It is a sad affair. The 16-foot plastic pool with the inflatable collar must be taken down at the end of the season. And the season ends once the nighttime temperatures hit values that are low enough to prevent daytime temperatures from building up to a comfortable level (even with a solar cover). And so, even though the current temperature is 92 F, and the pool is around 86, the comfort level of 89 degrees is no longer sustainable.
Thus, out comes the portable electric pump with the garden hose. This year the weather has been so dry that the water runs off faster, without being absorbed as in years past. But even as we write, a pop-up thunderstorm is muttering its tentative growls. The cats in the window seats are on the alert, which is to say that when a rumbling is heard, their ears twitch, but so far only one eye is open amongst them.
The garden hose will take probably 16 to 18 hours to drain some 2500 gallons; water that has seen considerable action, both human and chemical. Yes, we know that there are test kits and such that allow proper maintenance of pH levels, but in an informal way, the bleaching of a bathing suits and floating toys or the greenish strands of algae have served equally well as harbingers of lack of balance.
On the down side, the pool was a great entertainment center for the younglings. And when they weren't there, it was a fine place to float around and savor a Blue or a Blue Light (none of that wishy-washy American stuff for me).
As in other seasons, this was actually the second pool of the season. In the past, we had cat claw damage on the inflatable collar which rendered the pool unusable, so we went to a metal frame version. This one developed a serious hole in the bottom, probably from the efforts of a mole who came up in the wrong place. The result was a second pool of the inflatable type, because no metal frame ones were locally available by the time the damage became unrecoverable.
I suppose that if you were to amortize the cost of the pool, supplies, electricity and water you'd end up having to charge the swimmers about $3 each for every swim. But it's been a long, droughty summer, and when you're floating there, toes up with a Blue in your hand, you don't think mercenarily. Life is too good, and so short.
Showing posts with label pool. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pool. Show all posts
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Maybe I'm all wet, but ...
Saturday afternoon, J and I returned from a drumming gig at the Oxford, Ohio farmers' market. It was hot and humid, and when I finally joined her in the pool, the afternoon popup storm was waiting to begin. It reminded me of a long-ago visit to Puerto Rico, where the saying is, "If you don't like our weather, wait a minute."
J climbed out to attend to other matters, but I decided to stay and see what might transpire. I put up a lawn umbrella at the side of the pool to sit under, and turned off the normally turbulent pool pump. As the current died away, the sprinkles began.
I sat in the pool with my eyes as close to the water as my nose would permit. Each raindrop splash instantly created a bubble about half an inch across. At first, I could count them, but very quickly, it became an impossible task. And as the rain became steadier, the bubbles were burst immediately by the drops that came more frequently. Soon, I saw no bubbles at all, but only small columns of water popping up, sporting tiny spheres on their tips.
The ripples generated by the pelting rain countered across each other in patterns of interlaced diamonds and circles. I submerged to listen to the music of the showers as I had many times in my childhood at the lake. This time, however, I could no longer hear the soft, high singing of the raindrops that I loved so much as a youngster. But I could hear the pinging and popping that is heard nowhere else in our lives as the rain dented the surface and the waves fanned out.
As I emerged, a sudden menace of thunder reached my hears. It turned out to be the only rumble of the afternoon, but it sent me back to the garage to change into my clothes. I went upstairs to the Zinn Center (named after a beloved friend of ours in Florida) which is essentially a framed, screened 8-foot cube on the deck with a tarp on top. The pattering and then pounding of the rain on the canvas brought back memories of what J refers to as my "two camping trips".
It was a day to be savo(u)red. If I had a waterproof camera, I could have taken one picture, which would have saved a thousand words.
J climbed out to attend to other matters, but I decided to stay and see what might transpire. I put up a lawn umbrella at the side of the pool to sit under, and turned off the normally turbulent pool pump. As the current died away, the sprinkles began.
I sat in the pool with my eyes as close to the water as my nose would permit. Each raindrop splash instantly created a bubble about half an inch across. At first, I could count them, but very quickly, it became an impossible task. And as the rain became steadier, the bubbles were burst immediately by the drops that came more frequently. Soon, I saw no bubbles at all, but only small columns of water popping up, sporting tiny spheres on their tips.
The ripples generated by the pelting rain countered across each other in patterns of interlaced diamonds and circles. I submerged to listen to the music of the showers as I had many times in my childhood at the lake. This time, however, I could no longer hear the soft, high singing of the raindrops that I loved so much as a youngster. But I could hear the pinging and popping that is heard nowhere else in our lives as the rain dented the surface and the waves fanned out.
As I emerged, a sudden menace of thunder reached my hears. It turned out to be the only rumble of the afternoon, but it sent me back to the garage to change into my clothes. I went upstairs to the Zinn Center (named after a beloved friend of ours in Florida) which is essentially a framed, screened 8-foot cube on the deck with a tarp on top. The pattering and then pounding of the rain on the canvas brought back memories of what J refers to as my "two camping trips".
It was a day to be savo(u)red. If I had a waterproof camera, I could have taken one picture, which would have saved a thousand words.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Fish. Pondering.
One of the most enjoyable and interesting presents anyone ever gave me was a resin-cast fieldstone water fountain that I coveted the first time I clapped eyes on it. It looks convincingly real, (not exactly as pictured) and sits about three feet high, with the water bubbling up at the back, dribbling and bubbling over five shelves of flat rock, and into a pool below. Lighting is optional, but it comes with a small underwater lamp that can be set anywhere you want.
The resident adult children gave it to me because they knew I’d buy it for myself sooner or later, and it’s been out on the deck for a couple of summers, burbling and throwing ever-changing reflections on the wall. I tricked it out with a timer, of course, so as not to keep the neighbors up too late.
When I was a kid, my dad had a clamshell pool in the back yard of the house I remember. The previous owner had scooped out the earth and laid in a layer of concrete, and finished the whole circumference with a twin border of small flagstones embedded on their ends. The space between these embellishments he filled with dirt, and planted hens-and-chickens. A walkway of flagstones surrounded the pool, and in it swam goldfish.
I believe my dad was the one who had to have a waterfall, so one was build of heavy flagstones and concrete at the middle of the back of the pool. But over time, and every spring, the shallow pool leaked. There being no reinforcement except perhaps a layer of sand underneath it, each heave of the soil would stress the pool, and the spring ritual involved cleaning and water-blasting the pool so that it could be patched and refilled.
Eventually, dad decided to replace the pool, so he called in a crew of some sort, to excavate and build a much bigger, less imaginatively-shaped rectangular pool with a heavy border. He wanted to raise waterlilies, which need about four feet of depth. In the center, he had them form the footings for a cement frog fountain (again, not exactly as pictured, but same idea).
Unfortunately, the crew that poured the pool did not have enough cement mixed to do the job in one pour, and when they came back the next day to finish, there was an imperfect bond along the back side. So the spring ritual involved cleaning and water-blasting the pool so that it could be patched and refilled. The fish always seemed grateful for being released from the confines of their winter aquarium in the basement.
Two years ago, I brought the resin fountain into the living room for the winter. It would have been more successful had not the presence of a small child tended to turn it into a water play area. The experiment has not been repeated. And last summer, I bought five plastic carp for the pool, because you have to have fish in a pond. The raccoons who feed at our patio stole one of the fish. We found it half buried in the soil along the fence line. Another fish had its lips bitten off.
So for now, the fountain sits out in the storage area beside our swimming pool. I cut the big picture of it off the carton and mounted it on our "office" wall, and I console myself with the thought that by the end of March, I might even be able to put it outdoors again. The surviving plastic fish will be very grateful.
The resident adult children gave it to me because they knew I’d buy it for myself sooner or later, and it’s been out on the deck for a couple of summers, burbling and throwing ever-changing reflections on the wall. I tricked it out with a timer, of course, so as not to keep the neighbors up too late.
When I was a kid, my dad had a clamshell pool in the back yard of the house I remember. The previous owner had scooped out the earth and laid in a layer of concrete, and finished the whole circumference with a twin border of small flagstones embedded on their ends. The space between these embellishments he filled with dirt, and planted hens-and-chickens. A walkway of flagstones surrounded the pool, and in it swam goldfish.
I believe my dad was the one who had to have a waterfall, so one was build of heavy flagstones and concrete at the middle of the back of the pool. But over time, and every spring, the shallow pool leaked. There being no reinforcement except perhaps a layer of sand underneath it, each heave of the soil would stress the pool, and the spring ritual involved cleaning and water-blasting the pool so that it could be patched and refilled.
Eventually, dad decided to replace the pool, so he called in a crew of some sort, to excavate and build a much bigger, less imaginatively-shaped rectangular pool with a heavy border. He wanted to raise waterlilies, which need about four feet of depth. In the center, he had them form the footings for a cement frog fountain (again, not exactly as pictured, but same idea).
Unfortunately, the crew that poured the pool did not have enough cement mixed to do the job in one pour, and when they came back the next day to finish, there was an imperfect bond along the back side. So the spring ritual involved cleaning and water-blasting the pool so that it could be patched and refilled. The fish always seemed grateful for being released from the confines of their winter aquarium in the basement.
Two years ago, I brought the resin fountain into the living room for the winter. It would have been more successful had not the presence of a small child tended to turn it into a water play area. The experiment has not been repeated. And last summer, I bought five plastic carp for the pool, because you have to have fish in a pond. The raccoons who feed at our patio stole one of the fish. We found it half buried in the soil along the fence line. Another fish had its lips bitten off.
So for now, the fountain sits out in the storage area beside our swimming pool. I cut the big picture of it off the carton and mounted it on our "office" wall, and I console myself with the thought that by the end of March, I might even be able to put it outdoors again. The surviving plastic fish will be very grateful.
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