Deer In Headlines II
By Gery Deer
When I was a kid, we had an in-ground pool in our backyard. About the size of a two-car garage, my father, a skilled concrete worker and mason, built it himself. As spring gave way to summer, my dad would uncover, clean, and fill the pool for the season.
It was one of my favorite times of the year. The weather was still reasonably cool for early summer, and I was fascinated by the huge tanker truck that carried the water to our house. I grew up around trucks and other heavy equipment, so you’d think I would have little interest in such a thing. But when you’re five, everything is much bigger than life, and we didn’t have a water truck.
Although I could swim, my parents never learned. I always thought that was strange since my dad grew up on the banks of the Ohio River. So, unless my older brother or sister was in the pool too, I had to watch through the chain-link fence.
One particularly memorable pool opening day, when I was about 4 years old, the water truck arrived around lunchtime. I peered eagerly through the screen door. Mom stuck half of a boiled ham sandwich in my hand, told me to be patient, and she would take me outside when I’d finished my lunch.
I have an oddly specific memory of Mom commenting that this was the last of that particular lunch meat and not to waste it. I’m not sure why that stuck with me, but, at the time, it seemed pretty important.
At some point, I promised to finish the sandwich if she let me go outside, which did the trick. After all, Dad was out there, and I could stay by the fence. My case effectively pleaded, and the judge’s decision rendered, I happily toddled outside with my ham sandwich.
I think Dad was distracted. He chatted away with the water truck driver about whatever it is that truck drivers talk about when they’re waiting for gravity to do all their work for them. I adjusted the straw hat mom plopped onto my head on the way out the door, and clutched my sandwich as I stealthily made my way inside the enclosure and around to the opposite side of the pool.
I know – I wasn’t supposed to be there – and I knew it then too. But I was a handful back then and didn’t always do what I was supposed to do. Finally, I was near the filter vent – a favorite spot for me to sit and dangle my feet in the water.
I tried my best to disappear behind a deck chair when Mom called for Dad to make sure I ate my sandwich. He relayed the orders, noticed where I was standing, but seemed unconcerned. I took a big bite of the sandwich, crept over to the edge, and peered into the water. A moment later – kerplop! There I was, like a fishing bobber, headfirst and feet sticking out of the shallow part of the pool. I can still recall the feeling of being swallowed by water.
As quickly as it happened, I was yanked out of the pool by my foot, now missing its sandal. My father was taken over by fear but never missed a beat. Worried I’d taken a lung full of water on the way in, he put me over his knee, face down, and started thumping on my back. “Spit,” he repeatedly shouted at me as the heel of his hand rapped on my back. I shook my head in defiance. “No.” After a minute or so, I complied. Out of my mouth spewed a wad of half-masticated ham and bread that hit the cement with a splat.
When I fell in, I had a mouthful of food, and I held my breath, which kept the water outside, where it belonged. Upon my rescue, I was reluctant to spit it out because I was afraid I’d get into trouble for wasting it. That ham sandwich and my father’s quick action saved my life. The moral? Do what your mom tells you – and hold onto your ham sandwich.
The Jamestown Comet 