Swimming Lesson

I see John pull his cold body out of the water on the far side of the Duke Faculty Club pool. He is not supposed to do that. He is supposed to do another length of paddle kicking and then get ready for freestyle. Instead, he is curled into a fetal position, dripping onto the cement.

So it is with some reluctance that I put down my copy of Cold Spring Harbor. My intent is simple. I want to get him back in the pool. Easier said than done, I think to myself as I navigate through a field of spinning toddlers. The mommies are on cell phones. I am in the middle of a crowd of people that are completely blind to my presence.

“John, tell me what,” and here is where I stumble, because I want to approach him with some gentleness, “you are feeling.”

John is still. His eyes are focused straight ahead, at the surface of the pool’s edge.  His forehead is less than three inches above the cement. I am not making it up. There really is a light blue cast to his skin.

“I don’t like swimming team.

He sounds like he could cry. John never cries. I think he has cried three times since I have known him. The other day, he sprained his foot. No tears.

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Durham Then and Now

I like old pictures of Durham. It is fun to see how much this city has changed. Once, it was the market town for tobacco farmers, and not much else.

This is a tobacco warehouse, viewed from the intersection of Gregson and Peabody Streets. This is now part of Brightleaf.

This is a bridge on what is now the American Tobacco Trail. I think this is the one that goes over Fayetteville Street.

New Dodo

Most times, the best idea that comes out of a staff meeting is the decision to end it. When Peter suggested that we do just that, I agreed.

“Give me your keys,” he said. “I’ve got to show my place to a potential tenant in a few minutes.”

Peter normally drives a truck, but today, perhaps because everyone is mad at BP or perhaps because it is bike to work week, or perhaps for some other reason, he rode in on his Trek.

“Sure,” I said, “but don’t put the pedal down too fast. Remember, you probably aren’t used to that kind of power.”

Before I knew it, Peter was down the hall and out the door. I sat down at my chair and tried to catch up on a few things. I could hear Cara laughing.  She was looking down on the parking lot from our window in the back.

“Peter,” she said, “that is the wrong car.”

Peter is sitting in a grey Volvo s60, trying to use my keys to turn on the ignition. Except, I don’t have an s60. I have an S40. Our tenant downstairs has the s60. I can imagine the trouble Peter was having with my key. It is stubby and it wouldn’t fit in a normal switch.

“Well,” Peter said, “then where is the car.”

That is when I remembered that I had walked. I tried a save: “Peter,” I said, “Did you lose my car,” but it was too late.

John says that I should get Dodo for that.