Vintonville

It’s not that I liked nudity, I was just dumb.

Way, way, way back in the carefree 70’s I was a blond kid visiting my Grandparents in the oak hills of Los Altos California, sucking down fresh apricots, hiding/peeing (yeah, sorry about that) under mandarin orange trees and chasing blue-bellied lizards with a roaming band of dogs led by a black lab named Jed.

The neighbors had a pool tucked away in their back yard and generously allowed the grand kids access with permission and adult supervision– two things this kid didn’t have one summer morning. I’m sure I whined and complained at the world’s lack of justice and how “nobody liked me”, but nothin’.

So I was played for a sucker.

My Mom suggested instead of going to the pool, I could fill mixing bowls and brownie pans with water, put them on the patio and go “swimming” in them. Apparently, sloshing my feet and hands in cookware sounded awesome– not only was I pacified, I was all over it. Naked.

I’m not sure how I was coaxed into “swimsuit optional”, but I tiptoed out to “pool time” self-consciously ultra-commando but somewhat OK with all the incriminating nudity– assured skinny dipping on the back patio was worry free because “no one would see me”.

I pretty quickly realized dunking my naked butt into bowls and pans of tap water would never have anything to do with swimming.

Still, Mom and Gramma did steal a shot before the neighbor with the pool stopped by–through the “no one will see you” back patio– and sent me and my naked loins fleeing into the house in a mess of dumb, burning shame.