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If you’ve been a loyal reader all these years, you probably know that right about now is when I write a column griping about the heat and humidity. After spending about 800 words complaining bitterly about the sheer awfulness of the month of August in Philadelphia, I paradoxically add that I don’t look forward to the onset of cold weather that heralds another winter.
Well, it’s August. It’s hot and humid. And I feel it is my duty to warn you that this is another whiney little column bemoaning the heat and humidity and sundry other things. Don’t feel bad if you don’t feel the need to read ahead. Even my Uncle Nunzi advises me that there must be something I can do in late August rather than write another whiney column. There isn’t if I want to get paid for doing it. You’ve been forewarned.
I have nothing against young children. I was young once, I think. I do harbor a grudge against young children who poop in our club’s swimming pool. Not that there’s a proper time to poop in our swimming pool, but I’d prefer that it not occur when there’s an excessive heat warning and folks my age are trying to cool off. One of the worst decisions in life is to have to decide between avoiding heat stroke or jumping into a pool that some kid has just mistaken for a potty. Does that make me a bad person? Does it mean that Archbishop Charles J. Chaput will add folks like me to his hit list of persons banned from taking communion? I can see his list now — gays, unmarried couples, and older folks who complain about little children pooping in swimming pools. But I digress.
Why can’t little kids poop in their own splash pool? Have you noticed that they never make fecal deposits in their own splash pools? Why our spot? You don’t find seniors peeing in their splash pool, do you? Am I being unfair to these small children? Uncle Nunzi thinks I should blame parents for not preventing their kids from using our pool as a toilet. Ah, parents!
Since when did it become fashionable for parents to compete to see which one can toss their child farther in the pool? Kid-throwing has become a new form of exercise for young parents. I expect the Olympics to add it as an event as soon as the organizers can clear the raw sewage out of Rio’s waters. The current record for kid-throwing in our pool is about four feet. You think that fecal violations occur when the kid is tossed several feet in the air? “Watch out below” is what I say. Why not form men’s and women’s teams and hold a special kid-throwing night? That’s if they can get the kids to quit playing Marco Polo and Silence is Golden.
Oh, you’ve never heard of the game the kids call Marco Polo? I’m not sure about the rules of the game other than it’s usually played right about the time I’m dozing off for my swimming pool nap. Some kid yells “Marco Polo” and leaps into the deep end of the pool. I confess that I’m unfamiliar with the deep end of the pool since the deepest end that I inhabit is four feet and that’s when my body is clinging to a noodle. I can’t swim, float, or do much of anything aquatically except that I have become very adept at dodging kids being tossed into the pool. Why, you might ask, do the kids call their game Marco Polo? Maybe it’s because Marco, as I call him, is supposed to have invented macaroni, and kids are known to love macaroni. But here’s the puzzling part; sometimes, the kids play this game called Silence is Golden.
I am unable to tell the difference between the diversions. Again, a designated kid stands at the deep end of the pool deck and yells “Silence is golden” and jumps into the pool. Again the kid is uncanny at timing his or her yell at the moment I have finally reached REM sleep. No, I don’t think the kids named the game “Silence is Golden” out of any deep sense of irony. And I seriously doubt that because of this column, the kids will stop playing these games or that the younger progeny will stop taking an occasional dump in the pool anymore than the Phillies will stop charging $4.50 for a bottle of “purified” tap water so that fans can stay hydrated without going into bankruptcy.
While I’m on the subject of young parents — Have you ever noticed that those of us who are older than 70 seem invisible to young parents? Am I expecting too much when I wish that a young parent with a kid in a stroller that cost more than any car my father ever drove would step out of my way when he or she is blocking my entrance to the men’s locker room? You get two or more young parents with strollers that rival the size of a Hummer chatting about their kids, and you might as well be Claude Rains (note: he played The Invisible Man). Bicyclists and joggers almost run me over every day. Maybe I am invisible.
Uncle thinks I ought to take an August vacation.
