Frozen Pops of Summer

Uncle Tom, three-doors down, had an above-ground swimming pool. From white, alloy guardrails hung a weathered sign with the decree:

No Peeing.

Every summer, we'd file through his gate to dip grass plastered feet in chlorine while sticky drops from Freeze Pops dribbled Rorshacks on our legs. Our tongues wrestled and probed plastic tubing for ice as towels under our bums slipped into treated hose water.

It didn't matter. The sun singed away shivers and gooseflesh.

Uncle Tom never delivered Freeze Pops with ceremony. They appeared hours after aquatic horseplay. Somewhere between a blind Marco and chorused Polos, he'd slip a cooler--used for tackle bait--atop a wrought-iron table. Then, with huffs and grunts, he attended loudly to our bodily functions.

If you damn kids piss in my pool, I'll know. The water will turn green.

We believed him.

He'd toss a cigarette butt into a flailing cucumber garden and then someone would whisper, "The cooler!" Like clamoring carp, we bellied our way out of the water and fumbled down a rickety ladder. We arranged ourselves in circumference around the table, bodies trembling, drops falling from our noses. No one dared unlatch the red lid of the fishing cooler. No one dared utter a word through teeth chatter. We waited while Uncle Tom flicked, flicked, flicked a lighter and took a drag of a fresh, new cigarette.

I'm not opening this until you damn kids go pee.

He'd point at the boys then point to a large birch tree. He'd point at the girls then point behind a woodshed. We obeyed and scurried away rolling wet suits down like sardine cans, then urinate all over Mother Nature.

Upon return, suits pried up awry, we reformed into circular formation. Uncle Tom's faded blue anchor tattoo rippled over forearm tendons as he swigged an Old Syle. The sun winked on his protruding belly and gold-chained necklace. He laid both hands upon the red lid; his lips puffed the cigarette. The cooler opened. We all sucked air in.

Presented before us, coated in ice, Freeze Pops glittering like jewels in a reliquary.

Uncle Tom snipped the top from each Freeze Pop, ashing with his lips. We opened our palms to receive, one-by-one, frozen food-dye in communion, and one-by-one, each child scrambled back up the ladder. A silence resided as we held frost-bitten tubes to sunlight, marveling at the artificial colors. Then joy erupted as we plunged dirty feet into cool, aquamarine and bartered for flavors. With our heads thrown back, mouths gaping open, Uncle Tom hollered.

Don't you dare piss in my pool. And say thank you.

We'd gurgle unknown syllables as chunks of rainbow slush slid down throats and plastic cut mouths' edges. With eyes wide open, bulging and groping, we attempted to look grateful. Uncle Tom would latch the ice box shut, grumble, and flick another cigarette butt into the cucumber garden.

I'll never forget the way syrupy blue, orange, or red ran rivulets down my chin. Or the way my waterlogged fingers stuck to the freezer burned wrapping. When I close my eyes, I still feel the sloshy cold spread from belly to limbs. My cheeks pull in with tremendous effort, lips pucker around plastic corners, in an attempt to siphon every last drop of sugary liquid.

I can still recount the rope loops around his anchor tattoo, and the way his cross medallion got stuck sideways in chest hair. I can smell his cigarettes. Uncle Tom's own children, long ago grown, had moved far away; yet every summer he unlatched a chain-linked gate and allowed us in. And every summer--day after day--we returned to sup on Freeze Pops and swim.

It didn’t matter that we deeply, deeply feared him.