Carol Kirkpatrick, possibly the brightest writer I ever met in a writing group (proof positive being her ability to scribble out a pithy, brilliantly crafted story on the spot) had the additional charm of treating me to an oral history of Brooklyn whenever we walked its streets together.  Combining warmth, depth, humor, and subtlety well into her 90s, she will always represent perfectly what I’d like to be when I grow up.  My hope is to charm you with this sample of her writing:

Merriewold

Merriewold was the hub of my family’s universe for the nine summers spanning when I was seven to fifteen.

A small gated community on the road from Port Jervis to Monticello, NY, it included about 60 families.  The land tract, several miles square, had been purchased by my great grandfather and several of his cronies as an inexpensive summer getaway from New York’s presences.

The original network of friends swelled from eight or ten to the 60 or so when I was a child as new generations came to build their own houses and contribute to the general projects of creating a nine-hole golf course, a small clubhouse with a couple of tennis courts, a small private lake with a nice beach and swimming area, and two mini-boathouses for two dozen family canoes and small saleboats.

A caretaker family, the McCormicks, ran a small private post office, sold ice, collected trash, did minor maintenance, and helped contact contractors when major work was needed.  They remained year-round, but the other houses were strictly summer residences.  Buddy McCormick (Tom Jr.) was the mini-beach’s only official lifeguard.  Most of the lifeguarding was done by parents and other adults who would occasionally notice something that needed checking out in the water.

Lolling around in the water one day I re-invented the feet-first surface dive.  In standing position you extend arms sideways and suddenly push them vigorously.  The sudden thrust sends you up and then down about 10 feet.  Here I encountered a nice squishy mud bottom.  Pushing off vigorously I soon bobbed back up.  I repeated the action three or four times.

To one of the college beauties sunning herself on the mini-beach my new amusement looked a lot like drowning.  She dove in for the rescue.  That profoundly insulted my 10-year-old pride.  I fought back vigorously.  It wasn’t until we got to shore that I was able to convince her that I was really okay.

*****

With such a casual lifeguarding arrangement it is surprising that in my nine summers there not a single drowning occurred.  I can attest this with some certainty; in such a tight-knit community a calamity of that order would have been sermonized about forever.  Two factors reinforced this safety net.  One was the feeling of extended family which prompted Jeannie to attempt my “rescue.”  The other was my uncle Henry.

Henry thought no kid was too young to learn respect for the water.  He’d find three-four of us looking bored and create a mini-lifesaving class.  When he saw a kid’s attention wander he’d say, “Okay, Sasie, demonstrate the hair carry on me.”  Henry was almost completely bold.  Those lessons are long remembered.  I still recall “Sylvester is the Chester” as the mnemonic for a long outmoded form of breathing assist.

Henry’s lessons modified even our moments of pre-adolescent bravado.

The summer I was ten I had one burning ambition:  to swim across the lake.  To use kids that mile swim meant you were really somebody.

About halfway through the summer I did the half-mile with my parents and my dog paddling, the canoe beside me.  No problem.

But they thought I must be tired and wouldn’t let me continue for the mile.  My 10-year-old pride was devastated.  If only Henry was around.  But Henry was a busy physician in Delaware, and I was a lonely kid in Upstate New York.  I knew I could do it.  I needed family recognition.

The days flew by as summer days do.  My hopes dwindled.  Upstate New York weather turns cold earlier.  We were into the final usually cold week of August.

On a cold, bleak day my cousin Joanne and I left the house to see if we could find any action down by the lake.  Most of the houses lacked phones; you went to the lake to find or create action.  Joanne and I were allowed to hang out together on the theory that my 10-year-old tomboy would curtail her 16-year-old hormones and vice versa.  What they failed to realize was that, although we always left together and returned together, we didn’t always remain together.

Down at the lake we weren’t alone long.  Several of Joanne’s male contemporaries showed up and lively teenage banter developed.  I told Joanne I was going for a paddle in the canoe.  It was understood that that was okay as long as I remained in hailing distance.

As I skimmed along in the canoe I approached the point, the half-mile marker, to which I had swum a couple of weeks before.  I was now out of hailing reach but would Joanne and her boyfriends notice?  I doubted it.

I was being hailed, however, by Socrates, my dog, who had no interest in joining me when I started out in the canoe.

I continued to paddle, thinking about swimming the mile to the far side of the lake.  Socky was making a terrible racket barking but on I paddled as he followed me on land.  Would Joanne and friends hear?  Whatever.

I had never been to the far side of the lake.  There was no beach.  Just reeds growing in shallow water.  You could see a couple of houses through the trees.

Socky’s barking was really getting on my nerves.  I told him to quiet, but he started swimming toward me.  He was a good swimmer, but he wanted to come in the canoe with me.  Finally I relented and helped him in, but as he shook himself dry I got a good shower.  Very cold and unwelcome.  Then it happened.  The paddle fell in.  I leaned toward it and fell in.

If you remember how the 10-year-old mind works, you know the rest of the story.  I was wet.  The air was very cold.  The water was still warm.

I would swim the mile back, but, remembering Henry’s safety lessons, I would take the wooden paddle as a safety backup, floating it on ahead of me.

You can imagine the hullabaloo I caused a little later when Joanne and friends realized what was troubling the waters.

That was nothing to the fit Grandma threw when I was returned to the house.

I didn’t care.  I had swum the mile.