A real handful
January 9, 2016
The mother of a childhood friend recently asked friends and family to mail her daughter a letter describing their favorite memory of her, in honor of my friend’s 40th birthday.
We haven’t seen much of each other over the years, so it was fun to reminisce about our times together growing up. This is the story I shared:
It always rained at the Malta swim meet. It was a tradition.
Swimmers huddled shivering in their towels under the tarps stretched over the heat benches, leaving their sweats on until the last possible moment.
There was always that one bench everyone avoided, second or third from the front. Sitting there was like playing Russian roulette.
Every time the tarp above it collected too much water, it would sag and dump its load on the heads of anyone sitting in that row.
And so it was a pleasant surprise the year I was… 14, 15 maybe?… when the sun was shining. The tarps provided welcome shade rather than shelter from the rain.
The only thing I was thinking about as I moved up the heat benches was the frosted cinnamon roll I was going to eat after the race.
The event must have been freestyle, because that’s the only event my friend Janelle and I both swam.
Nobody gave that dreaded bench a second thought that year. A sliver of sunshine was the only thing coming through the tarps.
Or was it?…
The gap between the two tarps was a centimeter at the most. I mean, what are the odds?…
Janelle and I were on the same relay team, and we were a close-knit group.
But on that sunny day in Malta, I gave a whole new meaning to the phrase, “I have your back.”
Fortunately, Janelle and I were both wearing rubber swim caps.
Janelle leaned forward to adjust her goggles. She was an intense competitor, and had the medals to prove it.
I, on the other hand, was not nearly so intense. Winning was less a goal and more a pleasant possible side-effect to getting a good tan.
And so while Janelle was nervously adjusting her goggles, I yawned and stretched my arms wide.
I extended my fingertips to their full length, pointing my palms skyward.
And that’s when it happened.
Plop.
At first I didn’t get it. Was it raining after all?
Janelle had felt something drop on the back of her swim cap. She wiped it with her hand and made a disgusted “ugh” sound.
We looked at each other’s hands. She had a small brown smear in her palm. I had a handful – a handful of bird poop.
We looked at each other, horrified. We looked up at the tiny crack between the tarps. We looked back at our hands.
Then we started laughing hysterically.
The heat benches are usually a somewhat somber place. No one else had seen what had happened. They just thought Janelle and I had lost our minds.
We rushed to the locker room, the heat bench manager calling after us. We had about 60 seconds to clean up before our race.
We returned to find everyone waiting for us. Our coach was livid. “Where were you?” he demanded.
We just kept giggling.
I’m sure he thought I was a bad influence. Janelle was usually so focused.
But it wasn’t me! It was that darn, stinkin’ bird with excellent timing.
I don’t remember how that race turned out.
But I do remember that if you laugh while swimming freestyle, you get water up your nose.
This article first appeared in the Lewistown News-Argus and the Sidney (Mont.) Herald on January 9, 2016.
