Ain't No Senator's Son
Florida Today
I’ve known many people named Paul.
First name mostly, last names not so much and those, often a version of Paul, like Pat Paulsen, an American comedian who ran satirical campaigns for President of the United States, 1968-1996.
Then, there are the iconic Pauls, those whose last name speaks for itself.
McCartney. Simon. Newman.
As for the Paulas, no hesitation on my part- the “straight up” incredible Paula Abdul, one of my two dancer besties that made prepping dinner a dance party.
(Along with Paula, Janet Jackson helped pop queen my “nasty” dishes into the dishwasher and that’s a story for another day, ooh, ooh, ooh, yeah.)
While we’re naming names, let’s not forget the twin cities: Minneapolis-Saint Paul.
For me though, Paul is the name of the YMCA lifeguard who taught me and so many young kids how to swim, how to save ourselves in the water.
Sadly, my brothers and I outlived Paul. He was here and gone, thanks to Vietnam.
“Ain’t No Senator’s Son” is a version of an opinion piece written for the local newspaper, Florida Today, 12/3/2006.
After the column ran, the editor received calls from Paul’s family, including his mother. She had woken that morning and after so many years, found her son remembered in the paper. We were able to talk by phone and her joy was immeasurable.
Writers never forget. Particularly those living some sort of normality set against the backdrop of a daily news trauma drum beat. You pay attention. You read faces, judge reactions, measure responses. The memory muscle kicks in for life.
Paul makes an appearance in my novella-in-flash “Summer 1969”. Look for him in the story “Throw. Don’t Go.”
Thank you for reading. Be safe out there.
Ain’t No Senator’s Son
Paul Clark taught me to swim at the local YMCA. I was just a kid, maybe seven years old. In my mind’s eye, I see Paul- tanned, hair bleached Florida blonde, with an easy smile, often flashed to reassure nervous young moms seated pool side, that yes, he could bob and float their kids to personal water safety.
Paul was a natural born kid magnet. During free swim afternoons, when neighborhood kids hit the pool to escape the brutal heat, the teenager met us at the gate, greeting each of us by name. But if caught running on the slippery concrete pool deck, one shrill blast of the whistle from Paul would screech a kid to an instant halt. In no uncertain terms, Paul liked us but he was responsible for us as well. Kids thought he was pretty cool. Looking back, he was probably my first role model. Easy-going, self-assured, but all brass tacks when he meant business.
Summers came and went. Tadpoles became Minnows and before too long, Paul’s kids evolved into adept swimmers. YMCA swim patches sewn to our suits delineated the road to Swim Hall of Fame accomplishment: Fish, Flying Fish, Shark and Porpoise. The truly motivated aspired to Junior Lifeguard and with passage, the ultimate swim level, Senior Lifeguard, a level spawning a new generation of Pauls.
Paul was still around. We caught his wave and hello every now and then, but his sightings grew less frequent around the Y. One day we heard Paul was headed out to Vietnam. He lasted two months. Paul died Feb 23, 1969 at Binh Duong, South Vietnam. Ground casualty, small arms fire. His body was recovered and shipped home. Paul Franklin Clark was 23 years old.
I visited the Vietnam War Memorial many years ago in search of Paul once again. As I ran my fingers across his name etched into the black marble, I remembered the confident grin of the young man from so many years ago. The water splashes, the smell of chlorine tickles my nose and Paul’s whistle blasts once more, demanding attention. Stop before you hurt yourself.
Our local YMCA closed years ago. The main building is now the home to various businesses. The pool remains on the grounds, cloaked from view by years of Florida scrub gone wild, tangled and woven through the bowed chain link. Only those who swam their 1960’s summers away know the pool is even still there. Out by the front gate, hidden in the weeds, lie a small concrete marker, a tribute to Paul Clark and his service to the YMCA.*
We will never forget.
*The pool has been filled and landscaped since this writing. The concrete marker is treasured by Paul’s family.
Thank you for sharing your memories of Paul. How sad his life was cut short by that disgusting war.
A beautiful piece, Sheree. I’ll bet Paul’s mom was so touched, moved by your writing—what a wonderful memory gift you gave her! Deb