Cement Pond
Photo by Ann Cook
When we lived in the city, we removed the lawn and installed a large above-ground pool, leaving our Schnauzer with only a flower bed for relief. We built a redwood deck that hugged the pool on two sides and connected to our spa. Patio furniture, matching umbrellas, and landscape lights enhanced the glamour of our Queen’s Palms, Birds of Paradise, and a Spanish-style fountain. We had created Shangri-la on our cul-de-sac.
The listing flyer for Cook Peak advertised an in-ground swimming pool. The idea of encouraging our girls and their potential friends to stay close to our home, especially as they grew into teenagers, was a brilliant selling point for us. We already knew how to maintain and operate an above-ground pool. With the help of our local pool store, we tested and maintained our water like pros to keep it sparkling all year round. How hard could an in-ground pool be?
I thought of The Beverly Hillbillies the first time I saw the enormous swimming pool at Cook Peak. Speechless in front of 40,000 gallons of saltwater in a pebble-tec pool with a diving board, I felt overwhelmed and out of place. The water wasn’t brilliant blue and sparkly like our city pool; it was ominous with a tinge of green. We forgot all about the pool over the next few weeks and focused on winning the bid for our dream home.
It was 105 degrees on moving day. The girls and their cousins played Marco Polo and cannonballed their best off the diving board into the darkness. David and I unpacked the patio furniture, which looked miniature on the scalding concrete. Resting under the umbrella, we planned the landscaping for the pool area. We envisioned the barren flower beds planted with Nandina, Crepe Myrtle, and Star Jasmine. With landscape lighting that showcases the oak trees, a couple of fountains, and additional patio furniture, we would create Shangri-La, but this time at Cook Peak.
However, life at Cook Peak brought new challenges. As our first summer at Cook Peak unfolded, we learned that from the west, the wind howls when the sun dips behind Cook Peak mountain at four o’clock. It funnels through the Sierras to the Mojave Desert like a bullet train. That first summer, a gust yanked the umbrellas out of their metal bases and threw them like darts over the fence and into the lot next door. Another blast toppled our patio table and shattered the glass, scattering it across the concrete into the shallow end. Full of dirt and debris, the pool sweep stopped working, Ellen’s ears got infected, and the cement pond turned green.
Facing these setbacks, we took a jar of water to the pool store in Bakersfield. The cement pond flunked every test, and the list of chemicals we needed was daunting and expensive. We complied, believing the pool store was a place for experts. They kept us coming back each week with a new water sample, only to flunk the tests and buy more chemicals in the hope of a different outcome. The cement pond never passed a city pool test. Frustrated and tired of spending so much money, we hired a local pool service that knew precisely how to make a mountain pool thrive.
We enjoyed the cement pond when the girls were young, as did their friends. My favorite times were sitting on the edge with my daughters in the summer evenings, talking about boys and dangling our feet in the water. We named the bats that dove above us and hosted swim parties and BBQs, with diving contests, chicken fights, and night swims under the Milky Way. In the freezing winter, we welcomed the chance to break the ice and shove it with a broom like hockey pucks.
Now, looking at the cement pond from my bedroom window, I often think about swimming, but never do. Our landscaping plans never materialized: nothing would grow, lighting would spoil the night sky, and a sprinkler system was too costly. With the girls grown and gone, I am the one who scoops the leaves, adds the water, and saves the bees from drowning in Shangri-la.
