My Mother, the Grizzly

My Mother, the Grizzly

Green with envy, I was watching the floatie-free kids swim in the deep end of the public pool when I saw my nine-year-old brother, Joshua, begin floundering and churning the water like a seal caught in the jaws of a Great White.

He kicked his ostrich legs and flailed his arms at his attacker until the lifeguard’s shrill whistle pierced through the raucous laughter and the pop of bellies striking water. The lifeguard leapt to his feet and jabbed a finger in the assailant’s direction. The boy slid through the water and crawled up the hot cement to sit where the lifeguard had designated. His facial features I can’t recall except for the dark fury gathered there like the crackle of thunder before the strike of lightening.

But, being utterly self-consumed, this observation did not hold my attention long. I turned my back, lugged myself up by my elbows, and wrenched off the cover to the filter of the pool. I was attempting to resuscitate the bloated bodies of frogs when I heard my mother’s warbling war cry and the sound of a child whimpering.

My mouth dropped open as I watched my mother — my precious little mother — jerk a 10-year-old boy out of the water like he was nothing more than a sodden Cabbage Patch Doll. She clenched him by the meat of his shoulder with a white-knuckled grasp, water sluicing from his bowl cut as he looked up at her with frightened eyes. Her words could not be deciphered, but her tone conveyed enough to understand the message: “If you ever lay a hand on my son again, I WILL kill you!”

Meanwhile, Joshua (my brother) had dragged himself against the edge of the pool where he lay gasping long enough — his ribs heaving like a thoroughbred’s — to fill his lungs. As soon as the lifeguard released the rogue swimmer, he had silently slipped into the water and attempted to dunk Joshua again.

That is until my mother saw what was happening.

With her hands still sunk into the boy’s shoulder and her face inches from his, my mother did not see the man charging out of the bathhouse toward her. His skin head, bulging arms blazing with tattoos, and sheer size caused my five-year-old heart to flutter. Hearing the heavy thud of the man’s steps, my mother turned and — like a cat caught with the canary — reluctantly released her grip on the boy.

“Whatda ya think you’re doing!” the man screamed (along with a spray of expletives) before shoving my 5’1’’ mother. Without a second thought, my mother stood and shoved his 6’3’’ bulk in return. It was during this time the pool manager came running–leaping, actually, down past sun-bathers baking on beach towels and over the chain-link fence.

Standing in the center of the combatants with his palms turned up, the pool manager appeared like some odd, aquatic referee. Looking at my petite Grizzly Bear of a mother, her chest heaving and nostrils flared while protecting her cubs, pride bloomed in my heart like a poppy.

I wasn’t sure which person the pool manager should fear the most.