My Favorite Mitford

My 21-year-old son is very political, probably too much so for his own good. He is perpetually outraged by the injustice of the world, and I suppose he should be because the world is unjust and getting more so all the time. Still, I worry about the boy's mental health. And yes, I am aware that I am the last person who should be commenting on anyone else's mental health. 

Anyway, because he is very well informed about current events and not quite as well informed about history; and because he is of course very young, he doesn't really believe me when I tell him that the world has been in greater peril, and relatively recently. He’s convinced that world economic and social and political conditions have never been worse than now, and when I try to remind him about the 1930s, he rolls his eyes. “The Depression and World War 2,” he’ll say. “I know.” The phrase “boomer logic” entered the chat at some point, proving my earlier claim that the boy just doesn’t know his 20th century history because if he did, he’d know that his parents are Gen Xers, not Boomers. 

*****

This is what I am thinking about as I read Hons and Rebels, Jessica Mitford’s famous memoir of her childhood, youth, and marriage to Esmond Romilly, distant cousin to the Mitfords and nephew of Winston Churchill. Jessica, known to her family as “Decca” admired Esmond from afar (although they were cousins, they had never met) when she read about his exploits as a Loyalist volunteer in the Spanish Civil War. Later, she finally met Esmond at a house party of the kind depicted in Wodehouse or Waugh novels or PBS Masterpiece Theater programs like Upstairs Downstairs or Downton Abbey, because that is the kind of life that the Mitford sisters lived. The two young aristocrats fell in love, almost at first sight, and they ran away together. After a brief stint in Spain, the newlywed Romillys went to the United States, arriving in 1939 just before the whole world was about to explode. 

Jessica Mitford was a great writer. Hons and Rebels moves easily from the intimate details of Mitford family life with the very quirky Lord and Lady Redesdale as parents, to the political and social cataclysms of the late 1930s. If my son thinks that 21st century Democrats can’t get on the same page, he should read Jessica Mitford on Stalinist vs. Trotskyite infighting in the American Communist Party in the wake of the Nazi-Soviet Non-Aggression Pact. Those people were trolls before trolls were even invented. 

Esmond and Decca both came from absurdly privileged backgrounds, but that didn’t make their lives especially easy. As one of the youngest, and a girl, in a large aristocratic English family, Decca had few options other than to live the life of a debutante and “Honorable,” or to rebel as she eventually did. Decca and her sisters, though extremely well-read and bilingual (English and French, of course) had practically no formal education, a lack that Decca felt keenly and resented bitterly. Esmond, educated in the famous or infamous depending on your perspective English “public school” (anything but public) system, was separated from his family at age 8 or so and left to the tender mercies of headmasters and older boys, who freely brutalized their younger schoolmates. 

*****

Jessica Mitford was remarkably honest and clear-eyed about herself, her beloved Esmond, and the unfairness of the British class system. Even though she missed her sisters, especially Unity (“Boud”), she expressed practically no sentimental attachment to her family’s way of life, and she didn’t make excuses for Diana and Unity, who were wholehearted and enthusiastic Nazis. Don’t @ me on this until you read their letters. 

Esmond Romilly was killed in action early in the war, leaving poor Decca widowed and pregnant (the Romillys had already lost their first child, who died as an infant). Had he lived, maybe he would have remained an idealistic rebel, even in middle age. Or maybe he would have reverted to type. Maybe he and Decca would have returned to England, bought a country house, and voted for Margaret Thatcher in 1979. Esmond would only have been in his late 50s then. We’ll never know. 

But I don’t think it’s likely, if Decca was any indicator. Conventional wisdom claims that young radicals often turn conservative, even reactionary, when they get older, but Decca Mitford remained a radical for the rest of her life. She was a member of the American Communist Party, and she spent a good part of her career sticking it to the man, fighting against segregation, writing exposes about the funeral industry and polemics against everything from segregation to fancy spas to snooty restaurants. She was the real thing. Unlike a lot of privileged radicals, Decca seemed quite ready to give up her own privilege in order to make the world fairer and more equitable for others. But like a lot of other radicals, privileged and otherwise, she seemed not to understand that politics was neither the only way to go about this, nor even the best way. Her enthusiasm for Soviet-style Communism was stupid and misguided and wrong, but she certainly wasn’t the only left-leaning intellectual of that time who believed in Communism’s false promises. And at least she tried. She tried to do something to make the world more just. 

In Casting Off, the fourth of the five Cazalet Chronicles novels, one of the Cazalet brothers, responding to another brother’s complaints about England’s newly emerging postwar welfare state, recalls the First World War and remembers the guilt and shame he felt as an Army officer and son of an upper class family when he encountered truly poor people for the first time among the enlisted men who would fight under him on the battlefields of France. Many of these men were badly malnourished, bearing scars of untreated injuries or diseases, with rotting teeth and bad eyesight and stunted growth and a whole range of other maladies associated with extreme poverty. He remembers thinking that they barely seemed human to him when he first encountered them. He acknowledges that the welfare state has its flaws and that it will undoubtedly cause inconvenience for people of his class. But thinking of those men, he knows that something has to be done; that the status quo ante cannot continue, not after the working classes of England have sacrificed two generations of their young men to war. 

Reading Hons and Rebels, it doesn’t seem that Decca Mitford really felt much class guilt. She seemed to accept that the circumstances of her birth were beyond her control, for better or for worse. Her lifelong dedication to social justice seems to have been the result of an ingrained sense of fairness (although she did also seem to enjoy trolling her family, just a little bit). This is the question, then: Why do some rich people feel that sense of responsibility to others, and so many others manifestly do not?  Why do some people recognize that their good fortune is a gift that must be repaid while so many others believe that they deserve their privilege; that they earned it all and owe nothing to anyone? Is it innate, or is it cultural? Nature or nurture? A look at the Mitford family would suggest the former since none of the other sisters seemed particularly interested in social justice, although Unity and Diana were certainly political enough. Just another reason why Decca was the best Mitford. 

August and everything before and after

My son’s swim team won the division championship this morning, something that the team has not done since 2006. My oldest son started swimming in 2007, so the championship win is a new experience for us. The kids all took turns posing with the division trophy this morning, smiling in the blazing sun with the pool sparkling behind them. It was a good morning. 

But it was hot, and although I like hot, it might have been too hot this morning. I have been sitting on my couch since I got home, and I don’t feel any cooler than I did when I was standing on the pool deck in the near-100 degree temperatures. I can’t seem to make myself move, and I can’t think straight. I might have a touch of heat exhaustion. I might have a little bit of sun stroke. Can you have a little bit of sun stroke? Or is that like being a little bit pregnant? 

*****

I finally got off the couch and went swimming yesterday. And I was still hot, even in the water. I really like hot weather, but of course, people like me who have air-conditioned houses and cars and jobs and easy access to swimming pools can afford to like hot weather. But having acknowledged my own privilege, I will tell you that when it’s too hot for me, then it’s just too hot. 

It’s Sunday now, and after about 9 hours of sleep, which is a LOT more sleep than I usually get, I feel almost normal again. We have one more week of summer swimming (All-Stars is next week), which means one more Sunday afternoon writing the team newsletter and answering parent questions about warm-up times and the week’s practice schedule (word to the wise–I’m not the coach and I don’t care if your swimmer is going to miss practice on Tuesday morning because he has a dentist’s appointment). 

The boys who spent Friday afternoon making a mess in my bathroom (yes, they cleaned up after themselves, but they cleaned up to teenage boy standards, which are nowhere near middle-aged lady standards) set a new team record for the boys’ 15-18 medley relay event, so their ridiculous efforts were rewarded. And now we begin the winding-down part of the summer. August will be here and over in five minutes. 

I don't even know

Not long ago, I had a 33-game Wordle win streak in progress, and then I lost it just like that because I started a Wordle, set it aside for a bit, and never got around to finishing it. I usually do the Wordle first thing in the morning but I did it later in the day that day, and was interrupted, and then forgot all about it. I’m a creature of habit. 

Last night, I woke at 3 or so for my regularly scheduled small hours anxiety attack. I thought for a moment that I had broken my daily writing streak, which I’ve maintained without interruption for over four years. Then I remembered that I had actually written something. It was a thing about a book, and I’m setting it aside just like a half-finished Wordle. Thank God I’m not a professional book reviewer because it usually takes me a month to finish writing a post about a book. And I’d be a terrible book reviewer anyway because no one wants a review of a book that was published decades ago. 

Well that’s not true. I’d LOVE to read reviews of decades-old books. And I would be perfectly qualified to write such a review because I could take all the time in the world. After all, there wouldn't be a tight deadline for a review of a book that everyone has already read. Yes I think I have my next career idea. I should have thought of this years ago. 

It's Thursday now. My new Wordle streak is three days in and my writing streak continues. I don't remember exactly when this streak began but I do know that over a year ago, I was able to trace it back over three years so that’s how I know that it's over four years now, so maybe 1400 days, give or take. That's a long time to do anything every single day. 

*****

It was raining when I left work. And by rain, I don't mean a downpour nor a thunderstorm, which would be typical for a hot, humid July day. When I went out at lunchtime, the atmosphere felt volatile, like the sky could just open up at any moment. Instead, the afternoon continued peaceful and calm and the rain, when it finally came, was a soft and steady ozoney sun shower. Nothing else smells like ozone during a summer rain shower on a very hot day. We miss a lot of nature in our overly built and finished urban and suburban spaces but we get to smell the ozone as a light summer rain falls on the hot asphalt and a rainbow appears. I love nature as much as the next person but I love the smell of ozone during a summer rain shower even more. 

*****

Do you see what I’m doing? Maybe it’s not so obvious to you, so let me tell you what I’m doing. I’m writing my way out of writing something. Does that sound like a thing that a smart person would do? Does that sound like a sane and reasonable way to spend one’s time? 

Don’t answer those questions because they are rhetorical and I already know the answer anyway. But that’s how I write something, by spending a week or more writing nothing until something emerges. Nothing is easy, I tell you what. 

Anyway, it’s 5:30 on Friday afternoon now and I swear to you that I just heard the words “someone shave my back” coming from my hall bathroom and I’m afraid of what awaits me after the six teenage boys who are in that bathroom shaving their arms and legs and chests and backs vacate the premises. 

Oh, I’m glad you asked because that is a question I CAN answer. The division championship is tomorrow morning, and these boys are all convinced that they’ll swim faster if they shave their bodies. Other words I just heard: “Check the back of my leg. I’m not going to be the reason why we’re .01 off the record.” 

Yes, they’re going for a record. Their medley relay team has been unstoppable this year and they have a very good shot at a team and pool record. A league record, though unlikely, is not out of reach. 

*****

So I’ll keep plodding along with my daily writing and my almost-daily Wordle because no hair removal is necessary for those activities. One of the boys just popped his head out and called to me “Don’t worry, Mrs. P. We’re cleaning this up as we go along.” Sure they are. I don’t even want to look. 

Prime rate

Today was a coworker’s last day at work, so a group of us who share an office with him ate lunch together. We ate at a picnic table in the courtyard, right beneath a nice shade tree. It rained yesterday (it rains every day now) so we grabbed extra napkins so that we could wipe everything down.  We noticed a few ants around the table; in fact, there were a few ants on the table by the time we finished. But no matter, we all said. They’re just ants. They won’t hurt anyone. 

The itching started an hour or so later, and I couldn’t tell if it was real itching or just the creepy crawly feeling that a bug or an insect or some other vermin had gotten between your skin and your clothes. Eventually it subsided, and I went home without a care in the world until my husband texted me that a neighbor’s house had been burglarized earlier, and then the creepy crawly sensation followed me home. 

*****

It’s the next day now and I'm sitting in a conference room. And when I say "conference room," don't picture your average table and chairs with screens and projectors and telecom equipment. This is the single fanciest conference room I have ever seen. It 's large. I'm not going to count, but I think it seats about 90 people, in 7 rows arranged in semi-circular theater-style tiers. One side of the room is almost entirely windows that look out onto a semi-nice view of a brand-spanking-new building, a patio, and some trees. The light is excellent. The other walls are paneled in light wood. Each seat has its own table space, with charging stations and push-to-talk microphones. There is a large podium on a semi-circular dais at the front, backed by absolutely gigantic, Super Bowl-sized screens. 

We learned, when we arrived for this day-long offsite event, that we are the first group to ever use this brand-new room. No wonder it smells so new. Some of the chairs still have tags on them, including the one that I'm sitting in, which is exceptionally comfortable for a conference room chair. I'm very likely the first person ever to sit in this chair. It's quite excellent. Even the soap in the bathroom feels luxurious. 

This is the advantage of working for a very well-funded foundation. I myself don't make a lot of money but I don't need a lot of money. But it's nice to work in beautiful surroundings, even for a day. But speaking of work, the break is over. Time to return to meeting mode. 

*****

It’s Friday now. The meeting ended before 4 yesterday, leaving me free for a bit before it was time to head to my son’s baseball game. It would not have made sense, driving route-wise, for me to return home and then drive to the game. So I shopped for a bit. 

The thing about shopping now is not just that I can’t find things, it’s that I don’t WANT things. It’s quite freeing, although I do feel a sense of loss because the not wanting of things is related to being older and not wanting to be burdened with stuff. I watched young women and girls hopefully browsing the racks of clothing at Nordstrom, sure that they’ll find the top or the dress that will change the course of their lives or at least the course of their summers. I wish them the best and I wouldn’t trade places with them for a kajillion dollars. 

A gazillion, maybe. But not a kajillion. 

I finished shopping and drove to my son’s game without incident, watched a few innings, and got in my car to return home. I was in the car for the next 2.5 hours. After a terrible accident, Maryland 200 was closed in both directions, and I was stuck there, with all of the other unfortunate commuters, until we actually finally all u-turned in the middle of the highway and drove down the wrong side of the road and got off at the first exit, hoping that the oncoming lanes would be properly blocked.

It was really a bit terrifying. For a long time, there were no police directing the traffic. People just started turning around. People were getting out of their cars to take photos, just as others were u-turning to try to escape down the shoulder. Eventually, I heard on the radio that police up ahead at the scene of the accident had begun to turn people around and so I took it on faith that this was the best and only escape route, and that I’d just have to pray that I’d be able to figure out how to safely exit a major highway from the wrong direction, using an on ramp to exit. Terrifying. 

*****

All’s well that ends well. I guess. No one was hurt in the burglary, and the miscreants didn’t get away with anything especially valuable. One person died in the accident and although that's one too many, it could have been so much worse. And I got home eventually.

But I still have the creepy crawlies. That's two minor mishaps in one week and the last time I experienced two minor mishaps in one week, something awful happened later that same week. It's Saturday now and I'm not usually superstitious in any area of life other than Washington Capitals hockey, but I won't be at ease until this week is officially over. 

But who am I kidding? I’m never at ease, no matter the circumstances. Low-level fear and anxiety is my default setting, and so this is just another day. Even after this week ends, I'll find something else to worry about next week. Interest rates are climbing but I am still borrowing trouble. 

Cities of Girls

Did you ever read a book by mistake? I've done this more than once. Two years ago, I reread Bergdorf Blondes, which was apparently so unmemorable the first time that I did not actually remember having read it previously, except when I noticed that the ending seemed very familiar and wondered how the author had gotten away with such an obvious plagiarism, but then I realized that I had actually just read the same stupid book again. 

This time, what I did was to read the wrong author altogether. Someone on the Twitter posted something about an Elizabeth McCracken novel, which got me thinking about how I'd never read any of Elizabeth McCracken's work, and I decided to remedy that right away. And I got a digital copy of City of Girls and was about 25 pages in before I realized that Elizabeth Gilbert wrote City of Girls. And I still haven't read any of Elizabeth McCracken's work. 

I’m not sure how I mixed up McCracken and Gilbert, which are not really similar at all. UNLESS of course, the Twitter person tweeted that McCracken and not Gilbert wrote City of Girls and I searched for it only by title and didn’t realize until later that I had the wrong Elizabeth. That’s probably it. That’s totally it. 

I’ll do anything to avoid actually writing about something, won’t I? Ridiculous. 

Anyway, I’m finished with City of Girls now. That title is reminiscent of late 90s/early aughts chick lit (much like Bergdorf Blondes, which is also all about NYC girls), am I right? Like a pink book jacket illustrated with a mid-century-looking fashion advertisement drawing, and the title in an elegant (or playful) black script. I expected a book about a girl working at a fashion magazine, oppressed by a haughty and dictatorial boss, who spends her scarce free time drinking too much with her hilarious but heedless best friend, maxing out her credit cards, and scheming out a plan to get her rich and handsome scoundrel of a boyfriend to marry her. Spoiler: He does not marry her, but she realizes that she’s better off without him. She leaves her terrible job for a much better job, gets her life and her finances in order, and goes on to achieve great professional and personal success, while the former boyfriend leads a stultifying suburban life with the beautiful but dull woman whom he married instead of our heroine. If you are not familiar with the genre, I just abstracted a novel that incorporates every chick lit story line into one paragraph. That was a tour de force, don’t you think? 

Anyway, City of Girls was pretty good; rather, it’s not bad. It’s all told in the second person, meaning a first-person narrator tells her story to another person, not directly to the reader. In this case, the other person is the daughter of a man whom she (the daughter) suspects had an affair with the narrator. No spoilers, but the narrator has to tell the daughter her whole life story in order to make sense of the supposed affair. 

The protagonist and narrator, Vivian Morris, is an early 20th century archetype; an upper-class wild girl who rebels against her wealthy family and their bourgeois plans for her life. She fails out of Vassar and is banished to New York City to live with her bohemian aunt. In New York, Vivian lives a predictably wild and colorful life and then a less-predictable, still-unconventional but much more quiet and peaceful life. Both Vivian and the man whose daughter hears her story, make youthful mistakes that haunt them for many years after, but Vivian moves on and makes the best of her life, while the man, a WW 2 veteran, is paralyzed by guilt complicated by his physical and psychological battle scars. The story’s ending is neither particularly happy nor particularly unhappy. But it doesn’t matter because the story probably isn’t the point. 

Elizabeth Gilbert famously wrote Eat, Pray, Love. I don’t think I ever read it. No disrespect, it’s just not my kind of thing. Maybe I should read it because Gilbert is quite a good writer but maybe just not a novelist. City of Girls, it seems, is less a novel than a sort of poetic and beautifully written commentary on the prisons we build for ourselves, and how some of us escape those prisons early, some escape later, and some sad souls never escape at all. Really, this is why I think the book is only not bad. I liked it but there was something about it that wasn’t quite right. When I read a novel, I like to be all in, and I wasn’t all in on this one,  and I think I know why. I think that Gilbert was more interested in the message than the story. That doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s a bad novel; it’s just that it could have been much better if the story and the characters led, and the ideas followed. 

I thought about getting out of the early to mid-20th century and back to the present day, but then Jessica Mitford’s Hons and Rebels came up in my queue, and I’m right back where I always am, in the immediate pre-war 20th century, when the whole world was about to fall apart and only a few people seemed to really know what was about to happen. I feel like one of those people right now, and I wish I didn’t. 

Rain or shine

It's Saturday morning and guess where I am? Yes, I am under the umbrella on the pool deck, clipboard and pen at the ready, set to perform my team rep duties for our 4th Saturday meet. 

Today, the umbrella is here not for shade but for protection against the rain. Yes it's raining and swim meets proceed, rain or shine. As long as there’s no thunder or lightning, we swim. But it's a pleasant light summer rain, and the sky is beginning to lighten a bit so it might clear up. And if it doesn't, I will just stay under the umbrella. 

Last week my son told me that he needed to get Speedo briefs. He has always worn jammers but apparently the extra four inches of fabric is slowing him down. He didn't tell me that he was buying a bright pink Speedo but smart people don't generally come to me for fashion advice. He and the other pink Speedo-clad 15-18 boys were easy to spot. 

*****

Well, a monsoon is better than a drought, am I right? It’s Sunday morning now and it occurs to me that I shouldn’t have written (or even thought) that the sky seemed to be clearing and that the rain might end because of course it poured after that. Actually, “poured” is an exaggeration. It just went from mist to drizzle to almost no rain to steady rain that continued for the rest of the meet, and that steady rain, falling on top of the almost four inches that had come down since Friday night, left everything and everyone completely saturated. No thunder, and no lightning, and the meet ended in a victory. Afterward, we waded through ankle-deep mud to retrieve deck chairs and move them back to the pool deck. 

The rain slowed to a drizzle again, and although the day continued cloudy and April-cool, I wanted to swim because I always want to swim. But when I returned, the pool was deserted. Even the pool rat little kids who swim no matter what were not swimming yesterday. So I went home, which is a nice place to be on a rainy afternoon. It’s sunny and warm today. 

 

The crape myrtle in my mind

And just like that, everything is fine again. I was finally able to apologize to the second person involved in last week’s stupid stupidity, and he accepted my apology with great generosity and grace, and I feel much better. 

I’m at a Wednesday night swim meet. Having arrived late from work, I missed my son’s races, but I’m here to watch and cheer and do absolutely nothing else. I was going to work on the next long-ass weekly email, or maybe write some paper plate awards, or do some other damn thing but I’m just going to sit here on the deck and watch the backstroke flags wave gently in the breeze, and listen to the starter and watch some summer swimming. 

*****

It's a few days later now. It's actually the 4th of July. No further comment about the 4th of July except that it feels different but it also feels the same. It feels long weekendish and lazy and peak summery, like summer is just starting but also fast slipping away. The crape myrtle trees are already beginning to bloom. Once the crape myrtle appears, summer is on the clock. 

And I'm trying not to let it get away too fast. The news is always bad and there's always something to do. Always so much to do. But not everything that needs to be done needs to be done right now. It's a summer holiday. So I’m going to sit in a chair and read a book. Then I’m going to swim just for fun without counting laps: without even getting into a lap lane. Later, I will eat some ice cream and not worry about how to offset the calories because it's the 4th of July and I want a hamburger AND ice cream. I’m looking at the crape myrtle in bloom and not thinking about how soon July will be over followed by August followed by the end of summer. There’s plenty of time for the to-do list; plenty of time for me to compulsively do all of the things that need doing. Just not today. 

Will to win

"Two weeks without you and I still haven't gotten over you yet."

It's 8:15 AM on Saturday and although the pool is still and quiet in the early cool gray morning, the music selection is pretty fire. Both teams are finished warming up, both teams are finished with their pre-meet cheers, and the 15-18 boys and girls are gathered at the start, waiting for the medley relays to start. And here we go. 

*****

It's not over yet. We're now in the break between the individual events and the freestyle relays. Our boys medley relay team, consisting of my son and three of his friends, cruised to an easy win in Event 1. In the individual events, our two teams have traded the lead all morning. No idea what the score is now. Anything could happen. It all comes down to the freestyle relays. 

*****

One thing that I've learned in 16 years as a swim parent is that the race isn't always to the swiftest. In a contest with equally matched competitors, and even in some contests that aren't so equally matched, the final result often comes down to who wants it more. 

That's what I thought about as I circled the Trader Joe's parking lot, looking for a parking spot to replace the one that I had just lost to a bird. 

Let's be clear: this was a big bird, a fat and glossy black crow. He wasn't as big as my RAV4, but he was big for a parking lot bird. And he was determined to stay big. He was clutching the remains of a 7-11 hot dog in his beak (I know that it was a 7-11 hot dog because the hot dog was still in its cardboard sleeve, which made the situation even funnier), and he seemed ready to fight all comers who might have designs on that hot dog. A bird doesn’t attain and maintain such impressive size and girth, he seemed to say, without defending its food with some vigor. 

But again, he’s a bird, not a damn mountain lion; and so I expected, when I began to slowly inch my way into the parking space, that he’d recognize the great disparity between the size of my car and the size of his rotund but still birdlike body, and the inevitable result should the two objects collide. “Move, bird,” I said, moving slowly, by millimeters, into the spot. 

The bird, holding the hot dog firmly in his beak, refused to budge. “Fuck off, lady,” he said. “I will die for this hot dog.” 

I was nonplussed, and not just because the Trader Joe’s parking lot is apparently home to a talking bird with a bit of a sailor mouth. “Come on,” I said. “I admire your tenacity but you can’t pull this off. You vs. this car? This car wins every time. You know it and I know it, so move it. Shift your tail feathers,” I said, barely but still moving. I tooted the horn a bit, just for emphasis. 

The bird stood his ground. “Go ahead,” he said. “You can drive right over me and then scrape me out of your tire treads, and what’s left might not be pretty or even recognizable, but I promise you that this hot dog will still be intact, and still held in the kung fu grip of my cold, dead beak.” 

What else could I do? I backed out of the space, and started looking for another one. 

“Wow,” said my 17-year-old son. “You just lost a parking space battle to a bird.” 

“What can I tell you?” I said. “The bird wanted that little plot of land more than I did. Respect.”

*****

We were almost tied after the last individual events, leaving three freestyle relays that would decide the meet outcome. When the relays finally started, the cheering was absolutely deafening. Both teams cheered, of course, but our kids screamed and jumped up and down with an intensity that gave their relay-swimming friends an almost-physical boost that propelled them through the races just a tiny bit faster. Two of our three freestyle relays took first place, giving our team the very narrow 7-point edge that won the meet. And now you know what a hotdog-clutching parking lot bird has in common with a summer swim team.  In the heat of battle, it all came down to who wanted it more. Respect.