Joyce Marcel is a reporter and columnist for The Commons, where she regularly covers politics, homelessness, economic development issues, and the arts.
BRATTLEBORO-I’m a water baby, a lap swimmer, an Aquarius-born, brought up on the New York beaches, a person who swam happily in vast oceans named Atlantic, Pacific, Indian, and Mediterranean and then washed up in ocean-less Vermont.
Which is why this is an elegy for a pool. A particular pool. A pool on Putney Road. A pool that has been a crucial part of my world — and the world of many others — for decades. A pool that closed abruptly last week and maybe ended for good a world that I loved.
I came to Vermont from Panama in 1987. Panama, come to think about it, has two oceans, only 50 miles apart. My studio apartment there had a lovely view of the Pacific; my studio apartment in downtown Brattleboro did not. I was, so to speak, beached.
And then I found the Colonial Pool. Tucked behind a motel of the same name, it offered a heated indoor pool with three lap lanes, a dingy changing room covered in behavioral warning signs, a shower room, and a large wooden outdoor hot tub that could, in a literal pinch, seat six.
The pool was built by the wife of the hotel owner. She loved the water as I did; she started a swim school there. She also loved signs. Lots of signs — warning signs filled nearly every wall and door. Take a shower before entering the pool. Do not run. Do not dive. No lifeguard on duty. It was like being allowed to use the pool of your ill-tempered aunt.
The signs did not deter me. I became a member and paid for the privilege almost continuously, a year at a time, for the next 30 years.
When you became a member you were given a sign-in number. To tell you how long I’ve been swimming at the Colonial, when it closed last week the newest member numbers were six digits; mine was 236.
* * *
I loved that pool.
I loved how sensual the pool was. It covered almost all the sense bases except taste, as chlorine is never delicious.
I loved the feeling of clean warm water rushing over me, caressing my body as I pulled through it.
I loved the sound the water makes, bubbling, spilling, gurgling, and splashing in my ears.
I loved the dancing patterns of the lights on top of the water and deep into it.
I loved the joy of moving through water at speed, propelled by the strength of my own arms and legs.
I loved being surrounded by the color turquoise — pool liners are almost always turquoise. The color makes me feel safe and joyous.
I loved that swimming gratifies the obsessive part of me which takes comfort in counting meaningless things, like the number of the laps it takes to make half a mile. It is 18 laps out and back, by the way. I’ve always done 20 — two for the pot. Once a year, on my birthday, I’d do a mile just to prove I can.
I loved the meditation of swimming, the shutting down of my conscious mind, the thoughts and messages that surfaced after the first two or three laps, messages that told me what I really cared about. (The first two or three laps are always dedicated to what I’m making for dinner.)
I loved the sense of accomplishment I had when I finished. And I especially loved the hot tub afterward, now indoors, which I gave myself as a reward.
* * *
I will always love the solitariness of swimming. As a woman whose high school did not have teams that would pick her, I love that swimming does not require other people.
But at the Colonial I was also part of a community, of other men and women who swam. Hot tub conversations were especially memorable.
In the locker room, we women talked as we showered and dressed. Real talk, because we were naked and wet. We were vulnerable. We were showing our scars. There was no way to hide our lumps and our bulges. The only decoration we had to hide behind was the color of our toenails. Our conversations were often short, but they were naked, as in truthful. Naked, as in honest.
I’ve made friendships at the pool that have lasted more than 20 years. I made friendships there that changed my life.
When I meet members outside of the pool, maybe at a party or downtown on the street, we often joke, “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”
This community has taken care of one another in unexpected ways.
Once, when I fainted in the shower room — I forget why now — three women I didn’t know very well made a bed for me on the floor out of towels, called 911, managed to extract from me the correct combination for my lock (after several wrong tries), forced clothing onto my limp wet body, put my kit bag and pocketbook on the gurney, and then called my husband to meet me in the emergency room.
I don’t think they ever understood my deep gratitude — being Vermonters, they probably thought anybody would have done the same thing.
When someone in the pool community got sick, a card appeared on the check-in desk for us all to sign. When a community member died, we sometimes held a memorial service.
When I met 85-year-old Ruthie Clark, for example, she had stopped doing morning water aerobics but came anyway for the companionship. After she was taken to the hospital, the doctors gave her a choice: amputate her leg, or die the same day.
She spent the day writing farewell letters to her loved ones, including a love letter to the people at the pool, thanking us for our friendship and camaraderie.
For her memorial, we bought a rocking chair for the pool lobby and put a plaque on the back with a picture of her friendly, smiling face. I wonder what happened to that rocking chair.
* * *
When the Colonial was sold again, the new owners, bless them, put in a second lap pool. No more circling. Very little sharing.
The first pool, the original one, kept its salted water at 82 degrees, warm enough for physical therapy, for older people, for water aerobics, and for children learning how to swim. The newer pool had four lanes, was a bit colder, and served the lap swimming community perfectly.
The hard-working, long-time manager of the pool was trained by the original owner, so the walls were still full of warning signs. My favorite was the one on the steam room door: “Large pieces of ceiling are falling. The steam room will be closed until it is repaired. Hopefully, this will be soon.”
But everything came to a crashing end last week. The newest owner couldn’t handle the finances, even though the pool, with 490 members, was profitable. The motel was housing homeless people on expensive state vouchers as well as hosting guests passing through town. And a few new Americans had just opened an Afghan restaurant in the front. They didn’t deserve what happened. None of us did.
In March, the owner couldn’t pay the bill and Green Mountain Power shut off the electricity. The pool chilled. There was no hot water for showers. They closed the pool.
But the owner eventually found the money, the power went back on, and we pretended things were going smoothly again. (Although we were told there was no money to fix the hot water heater, so the showers were never hot.)
Then this month’s bill came, and I guess once again he didn’t have the money. He shut the Colonial Motel and Spa down cold on Wednesday. Our yearly contracts were broken, with no chance for reimbursement.
The staff was stiffed a week’s pay and told to apply for unemployment.
The massage therapist who worked in the back office had to pack up all her gear.
The homeless people, who had formed their own community, were moved to other motels.
And my community, the swimming community? We’re sending desperate emails back and forth, trying to find a way to swim.
The Colonial’s are the only indoor lap pools in town. The next closest ones are in Greenfield, Massachusetts, Keene, New Hampshire, and Springfield, Vermont.
In my opinion, the town of Brattleboro should buy and run the pools. They fill an obvious need, they’re an important resource, they’re right on Putney Road, and there’s a community of swimmers anxious to jump back into the water without having to drive 40 minutes each way to do it.
Or maybe the members could organize, raise money, and buy the pools as a cooperative? Or the Brattleboro Development Credit Corp. could jump in and help the owner resurrect his business?
This was a beloved and thriving business in the heart of Brattleboro’s shopping district. It should not be allowed to disappear.
This Voices column by Joyce Marcel was written for The Commons.
This piece, published in print in the Voices section or as a column in the news sections, represents the opinion of the writer. In the newspaper and on this website, we strive to ensure that opinions are based on fair expression of established fact. In the spirit of transparency and accountability, The Commons is reviewing and developing more precise policies about editing of opinions and our role and our responsibility and standards in fact-checking our own work and the contributions to the newspaper. In the meantime, we heartily encourage civil and productive responses at voices@commonsnews.org.