A Little Bit Like Home

Beyond the Ropes

Long before I could swim to it, I knew exactly where I wanted to go. Out beyond the roped-off swimming area at the Lake of Three Fires sat a floating platform with a slide and diving board. To most people, it probably wasn’t much to look at. To me, it might as well have been an island in the middle of the ocean.

My memories of the Lake of Three Fires go back about as far as I can remember. The state park sits northeast of Bedford, Iowa, but long before I knew its history, I knew it as the place where we went swimming. We put on our swimsuits at home, packed towels, and drove north to Bedford and then out to the lake.

The swimming area was marked by floating buoys, making it clear where we were supposed to stay. For a long time, that was enough for me. I liked the water, but I didn’t come into this world as a fearless swimmer. My first swimming lessons came in the backyard pool of Beccy and Jack Baldwin. Beccy helped me past my fear of putting my head under water by teaching me to blow bubbles. Later, swimming lessons continued through Red Cross classes in Maryville and Bedford.

Still, the platform was something different. It sat just beyond the ropes, far enough away that you had to be strong enough to swim there and still have enough energy to swim back. I’m pretty sure my first trip to the platform was on my sister Debbie’s back, or maybe Dad’s. Either way, someone gave me enough “umph” to get there before I could make it myself.

The lake wasn’t just a place our family went. It was also a place our church family gathered. We sometimes had a service in one of the shelters, followed by a carry-in dinner. There was something special about singing outside as a congregation, with people on benches under the shelter and others in webbed lawn chairs. Those meals were some of the best carry-ins we had. The only downside was what happened after we ate.

We had to wait 30 minutes before swimming. Every mother, father, grandmother, and grandfather seemed united on that rule. There must have been some secret adult agreement that no child was allowed to swim until at least 30 minutes had passed. As I remember it, the timer did not begin when the children finished eating. It began 30 minutes after the last person finished eating. One slow adult working on a second piece of pie could hold up half the children.

I’m almost certain the first time I swam to the platform on my own was after one of those church gatherings. My brother Joe and the other kids from church had gone ahead while Mom and Dad stayed behind to visit and pack things up. I don’t remember many details. I remember wondering whether I had enough “umph” to make it. I remember knowing Joe would be nearby, close enough that I didn’t feel quite as alone.

By the time I pulled myself up the ladder, I was semi-exhausted. I didn’t stay very long. By then, the slide was gone, and jumping off the diving board didn’t seem as exciting as it once had. The platform itself didn’t seem as big once I was standing on it. But that didn’t make it less important. The victory wasn’t what I did once I got there. The victory was getting there.

We didn’t vacation there in the way people usually use that word. We didn’t pack suitcases and stay for a week. But in the bigger picture, it really was a vacation: water, sand, fireworks, ice cream from the Frosty Trete, church, family, and the kind of freedom children recognize before they have words for it.

Most of us spend our lives swimming toward something that once looked too far away. At first, someone teaches us to blow bubbles. Later, someone carries us farther than we can go by ourselves. Then one day, someone stays near enough to give us courage while we try it on our own. And somewhere along the way, the platform isn’t quite as far away as it used to be.

Tom Brand writes the weekly A Little Bit Like Home column, reflecting on faith, family, and life in Missouri. He still believes the 30-minute swimming rule was mostly designed to give adults more time for pie. His latest book, You Have To Leave If You Want To Come Back, is available at www.RichardsonPress.com.