It was poured concrete (rumour had it that after all the mining underfoot, 10,000 gallons poured through the cracks in the floor every day; I doubt that, but we all said it and we were all convinced of the fact then), the change rooms, showers and offices cinderblock shells. There were always pools of water scattered about the floor where there was poor drainage, and we all hated the feel of them, believing them to not only be slimy to the touch (they were), but toxic. They smelled of must and mildew so why wouldn’t they not be toxic to the touch. It afforded neither heat nor air conditioning, and was never intended to operate year-round. And it didn’t, so all swimming lessons then were held only in the summer. It goes without saying, the Schumacher Pool was always humid, always a little musty.
Karen and I used to ride our bikes to it for public swims when the weather was good, lock them up to the rows of bike racks out front. Sometimes we went with neighbours, mostly by ourselves. We always knew we’d meet up with kids we knew, we and they having spent years of lessons there. And that was why we swam there, despite Gilles Lake being half the distance from our house. Then again, you couldn’t swim in Gilles in August unless you brought an extra suit or a change of clothes with you or else you'd get swimmers’ itch, cercarial dermatitis, inflicting hive-like welts wherever the damp cloth rested on your skin (there were nasty little parasites in the water back then, at least until the city dredged the lake). I didn’t want to get swimmer’s itch. Not ever. Every welt raised was automatically assumed to be another bout of hives. Panic inevitably arose from the sight of them.
Another reason to go to the pool: we never had to pay, free admission was the perk of taking lessons there. We’d show our lesson card and be waved within. We’d collect our change baskets, jam out street clothes into them, and pin our stainless-steel tag to our suit, then return the baskets to their racks for the duration. I can't say I ever lost anything from the baskets, and they never misplaced one, not ever; the kids working at the pool kept a keen eye on our stuff while we were having our fun.
We’d wait at the change room doors, piled up against each other from the door back into the showers waiting for the swim bell. Swim caps were the rule. We all had to wear them for the sake of the filters. And most fetching they were! Sleek speedos, loud floral frescos, a riot of colours that always clashed with the loudly coloured suits of the day. The bell always took forever to ring. Those lucky enough to be at the door would watch the seconds tick by on the clock. Loud, it rang like a fire bell klaxon.
The guards would yell at us every swim to slow down and walk. We would, we did, but in the most comical quick half-run shuffle.
