Paddle Pool Dreams

When I was very young, I think about seven, I got a game for Christmas called "Paddle Pool". Basically, it was a square plastic area, about two by two feet, with a raised center and four curved sides. At each end of the board were "goals" which were sunken areas into which the game balls were to be shot. Defending these goals were foot long plastic "paddles", which the player manipulated with both hands. Basically, the players shot the ball at the other players goals and the other players tried to defend those goals. Each score was worth a point. Whoever got to five first, won.

That was it.

That was the game, at least. But what it meant, and what it still means, is a lot more. I have very clear memories of this game providing literally hours and hours of joy for my family, at a time in all our lives when we were all relatively young, strong and happy. My dad was in his early fifties, getting ready for early retirement from government work. He was still smoking and drinking at this point, and may have had high blood pressure, but he was still years away from the time that it would become a real problem for him. He was in good physical shape, not heavy yet, still strong and able to play a game of "horse" or "around the world " with me, and not yet plagued by the hypertension which would cast a chill over his personality.

My mom was in her mid forties, smoking like my father, but not drinking. She had epilepsy and agoraphobia, but other than that she was in reasonably good physical shape. She was a full time housewife; I was still a little tyke who needed practically constant care (or so they thought!) She didn't get out of the house much at this point, as her agoraphobia was in full force. I really didn't understand at this stage of my life what a huge thing this was. Mom just "got nervous" when she went out, so most of the time the person to take me to the store or ball games or school or the doctor was my dad. It just never occurred to me that there was anything really odd or out of place about this. It was just the way things had always been. My mom doted on me, playing games with me, talking to me, reading to me, asking me about my day at school and taking an interest in my hobbies (which at this point were comic books and monster movies, with sports just beginning to become interesting to me). She pretty well wrapped her life around me, and I have to tell you, it was a sweet life for me.

My brother was in his early twenties, young good looking and healthy. He drank and smoke of course, but not yet to the extent that he would later on. He and I really didn't do a lot together; he had just gotten married and had moved out of the house. He worked full time and only came up on weekends, usually Saturday nights to play cards and drink with my dad. I thought he was the coolest person in the world; that's what your older brother usually is. He had cool friends (at least I thought so then), a nice pretty wife, a job, his own place. He could play guitar and sports, he was smart and funny.In reality, I didn't know him at all; I knew him in the distant, unrealistic way we know movie stars or anyone that we end up idolizing. We read glamour into our heroes, and don't bother ourselves with their darker sides. Thinking back, even then I realized my brother had a very cruel selfish streak that came out from time to time, but I wasn't around him enough for it to really bother me or change my opinion of him. And the slightly to moderately drunk state I generally saw him in mellowed and took care of those sharper edges most of the time.

His wife was a nice young lady, tall, pretty without being beautiful. She was down to earth, generally quiet, with a sense of humor that seemed to fit right in with that of our family. She loved sports, knew a lot of the same people my dad did, and liked to drink and play games. She was interested in current events, read NEWSWEEK and PLAYBOY. She was always nice to me; talked to me like an adult would to another adult and I know now was the one who suggested whatever outings I took with she and my brother.

I was a smart little boy; thin, sheltered and spoiled. I was the only "kid" at home, and while my parents were far from rich, I certainly never went without. Christmas always brought a big stack of presents under the tree. Birthdays were nice without being extravagant. I really never asked for much otherwise, aside from the occasional comic or magazine. If I did, I generally got it, but I just was easily pleased, I guess. I did well in school, helped out a little around the house (but not much I have to admit; most of my chores were helping my mom, who liked to have someone do dishes with her). I remember having a lot of fears. Not having many experiences or responsibilities, I built up dark mysteries and fears about things I didn't have experience with, which was pretty much everything. I didn't like change, was afraid to be alone, didn't like night time, and was just generally scared of the unknown. My parents were concerned but kind of puzzled by this trait, I think. They talked to me about it, but I really couldn't articulate why I felt that way. And in that day, the thought of a child going to a therapist was almost unheard of. If you did, you were practically labelled a psychopath. It just didn't happen, unless you were having problems in school, which I wasn't.

But I was happy. I got good grades, I had quite a few friends, my parents loved and took care of me, and I had no responsibilities. Life was good.

We all liked to play paddle pool. My dad used to say it was like a breathalizer test; if you were drunk, you couldn't do very well at Paddle Pool. He was right. But a lot of the time, my dad, brother and sister-in-law were at some stage of inebriation. My mom and I didn't drink of course, but we didn't feel left out. Generally, no one got really drunk, just buzzed enough to be silly and uncoordinated.

I guess I just remember a lot of laughing. That is a nice memory to hang onto. This was before all the things that happen to families happened; frustration, disappointment, heartbreak, illness, alcoholism, drug abuse, tension, jealousy, anger. This is not to say none of these things were present then. It's just that I was young enough not to detect their subtle (and not so subtle) presence, and they weren't operating at any level that would have made them obvious to anyone. These negative elements were nicely opposed by positive ones; laughter, companionship, success, and love.

It isn't often that you can find something that truly "the whole family can enjoy". Paddle Pool, for whatever reason, was that something for us. Maybe it was the simplicity of the game. The rules were very basic, the play of the game easy to understand. Most of the games we played involved more thinking than doing, so maybe the physical aspect of the game had something to do with its appeal. Whatever it was, we all liked it, and we liked being together to play it.

Why am I thinking about a game that I played over thirty years ago? Because my mother died about four months ago, and I am looking down the barrel of a lonely life. My dad has been gone since 1992, and my brother has retreated into the self-imposed prison of the bottle, no longer reachable by anyone or anything. I am pretty much all that is left of that little circle. And I need and want to recall a time when things weren't the way they are now, the way they became over the years; my dad, wracked by hypertension and responsibility, his personality changed by high blood pressure and stress until even he realized he was no longer the easygoing, contented man he had been; my mom, burdened with a frail body and shackled to the responsibilities of housewife and mother when her mind yearned to soar beyond it all, to travel, to laugh with friends and live spontaneously; my brother, sinking oh so deep into selfishness and self-denial by drowning every conflict he ever had in a sea of booze and avoidance; myself, tormented by obsessive compulsive disorder and self-doubt, not knowing how to act to achieve whatever dreams I held dear. (My sister-in-law "escaped" by divorcing my brother in 1982.)

I don't like to think of myself as a "sole survivor". But sometimes it certainly feels that way. By virtue of my age, I suppose, I am destined to be the only one who remembers those nights, those times and treasure them.

I guess that's why I was compelled to say something about Paddle Pool. I want that time to dwell forever in my mind, like a photograph that reminds me of a better time, when there seemed like there were so many possibilities and everyone had their lives (or at least a portion of them) ahead of them. I want it to remind me and whoever reads this that there are moments of pure joy in life, even though we may not always recognize them as such when they happen.

Sometimes people ask what one's idea of heaven is. Well, we're not all there yet, but I kind of like to think that somewhere there is a kitchen table where my mother and father wait for me patiently. They have the board all out and ready, my mom has her scorepad with our names pencilled in. My dad has a Hamm's can in front of him (hey, it's Heaven, what the hell?), my mom has her iced tea with lemon. My dad is relaxed like he used to be, the heavy burden of responsibility has left his soul. My mom is young and healthy; she can breathe and walk perfectly again. She is laughing, telling jokes and having a good time. She is still the sweet, giving soul that she always was. My brother can stop by when he is ready, and hopefully whatever demons drive him have been exorcised to. All that darkness is gone from us all. We sit and we laugh and we enjoy each other's company.

And we play.