Some Bittersweet Memories of Life With Father : Head of the Pool Club

Father. Fathers loved and fathers feared, close fathers and distant fathers, famous fathers and “ordinary” fathers. No matter what the relationship, he’s special. In the remembrances that follow, Times writers tell something of what that relationship has meant.

It was Miami, the summer of 1966. The summer of the Pool War. Hostilities began on Father’s Day.

I hadn’t forgotten the occasion. In fact, I’d even bought my dad a fancy “auto-coaster” so he could drink a martini in his car. He didn’t drink martinis, but it was the most sophisticated gift I could think of.

Fueled by a burst of filial enthusiasm, my pal David Kramarsky and I cleaned out our backyard pool. We fished out leaves. We hosed down the lounge chairs and trimmed the hedges. We even knocked down a wasp’s nest.

After a long, hot afternoon, we surveyed our accomplishments. The pool looked spotless. Proudly sizing up our achievement, we decided that what had began as a Father’s Day gesture was actually a job well done. In other words, a job worth being paid for. After itemizing our various labors--we awarded ourselves “hazardous duty pay” for pursuing the wasps--we presented my dad with a bill. Ten dollars. Enough money for two Rolling Stones records.

“Are you sure you think you deserve this?” my father asked. We nodded our heads. He shrugged and without further comment, paid up. The War had begun.

The next weekend, when David and I marched out to the pool, we found my father guarding the back door. He grinned. “Are you members of the Pool Club?” he said. We eyed him suspiciously. “What Pool Club?” He feigned surprise. “Don’t you know? My new Pool Club. I’ve had lots of unexpected expenses lately. Upkeep. Maintenance.” He grinned again. “It’ll be $5 each. Consider it a lifetime membership.”

The Pool Rebellion

We were outraged. We argued. We whined. My father stood firm. Furious, we organized a boycott. That summer the pool--once the focus of our neighborhood’s pre-teen set--went unused. The Rolling Stones put out three new albums. The pool lay vacant. The next spring I flunked geography. The pool filled with leaves. The following summer I began to notice pimples on my chin. The pool--just a memory.

Then I discovered girls. Girls, I also learned, were crazy about guys who threw late-night parties at their parents’ pools. The War was over.

I surrendered--fittingly--on Father’s Day. After offering yet another sophisticated gift (a box of Cuban cigars), I gave my Pop a $5 bill. “You know,” I grumbled. “For the pool.”

My dad raised his eyebrows. He eyed the bill, stuffed it in his pocket and offered his hand. With a sly grin, he said, “Welcome to the club.”