Mid-60s and drizzling outside my office window this morning. For now, these trips back to the panhandle have become more frequent, leaving the security of the farm for a 10 by 10 office with four air conditioning registers blowing Covid on my bald head while P stands in an operating room where they've stopped testing for Covid unless the patient is obviously symptomatic. When I picked her up after work on Wednesday, there was a hearse at the door to pick up one such patient, or rather what was left of him, after a not-so-good outcome. Something's gotta give.
But enough of that.
This morning's cool fall weather, for which we'd been longing through a brutally hot summer, has me waxing nostalgic for one of the great triumphs of our Wyldswood adventure, the truck bed pool.
As the temperatures ramped up in mid-June, and the mornings got warmer and stickier followed by afternoons of oppressive heat and humidity, Peg kept "thinking out loud" about how nice it would be to have a pool. We pondered low cost options, starting with a shipping container conversion we could put out behind the master bedroom.
It took very little research to figure out this would be a $30,000.00 undertaking, however, and that simply wasn't in the budget with all the other projects on the agenda this summer.
Then during one of Peg's insomnia driven, 2 a.m. tours through Pinterest, she came across the stock tank pool, which takes a cattle watering tank and, with the addition of a pump and some chemicals, turns it into a backyard oasis from the heat.
Unfortunately, this is the trendy summer home improvement of the 2020 pandemic, and Tractor Supply had a waiting list for these tanks. I reckon that would explain why the friend who's tending to our actual cattle has been forced to resort to a kiddie pool as a substitute stock tank to keep the cows hydrated. You can see it in the background of one of the shots in yesterday's post.
The stock tank pool option also costs $4-5,000.00 by the time you're finished. Again, not in the budget right now.
The solution to our problem was piled on display at the front door of the local Wal-Mart, where I found myself hanging around while Peg looked for vitamins or some such on a June Saturday afternoon. There it was--for a mere $39.95, we could line our pickup truck bed with two inflatable walls and a thick plastic floor. Just fill with well water and---voila!--we had our swimming pool.
Our first foray into using this amazing invention was in the Ridgeline. The bed was a little too short, making it bunch up in places, but we had our first happy hour in the pool that very afternoon.
Of course, this is the safe-for-work version of what became a daily ritual through a blazing hot July. With no one for at least a quarter mile in any direction, why bother with bathing suits? After a while we learned it was prudent to drape a suit over the side of the truck bed, however, because of this neighborly habit of dropping in unannounced (see my earlier post), and the occasional need to jump out of the bed and shoot at varmints that would show up and menace the guineas and chickens. You can thank me later for not posting the photo of a naked, late middle-aged man bounding across the yard wielding a twelve gauge while dodging a minefield of goose poop that extends in every direction.
And the fowl all wanted to join in this afternoon celebration of a productive day, hanging around the bed of the truck as we'd sprawl in the cool water listening to John Prine and sipping wine.
The geese would poke at their reflections in the bumper and the chrome wheels. Peg would splash water over the side on them, which seemed to delight some and annoy others. The chickens were definitely not okay with it.
Over time, the liturgy of the truck pool plunge became more elaborate, with a floating snack tray to go with the cocktails.
We also learned that it was best to fill the pool an hour or so before our dip, because well water from 40 feet below the house was surprisingly cold. About an hour in the sun brought it up to a brisk, refreshing temperature that didn't leave us grimacing and moaning as we lowered our privates into the pool.
I guess all good things come to an end. It also seems that there's good and fun in facets of farm life in Florida that can be a challenge, such as the tropical heat. By August we were ready for a few cool days, but at the same time I looked forward to riding in the gator late in the afternoon out to some corner of the farm where Peg had the tractor all tangled up in saplings, trying to bush hog the brush where one day we hope to put a few more cattle. I'd wave, she'd turn off the diesel, open the door and pull her ear protectors down around her neck.
"Ready for me to start filling the pool?"
She would just smile a gritty, sweaty smile, and nod in agreement. An hour later we were humming along with John Prine singing "I Remember Everything" with a cool cocktail in our refreshing truck bed pool, surrounded by Gus and Mange and the ducks and the guineas and all the creatures that have delighted us as we've all brought the farm back to life.
So yes, we'll miss the summer, miss this moment in our lives, miss the luxury of sheltering--in-place in a vast verdant park, best viewed over the tailgate of a $40 truck bed pool. And so it goes.
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