The Inflatable Pool That Took Over the Yard

It started innocently enough—with a heatwave, a sale ad in the Sunday paper, and the innocent ambition of giving everyone at Shady Pines a little cool-down reprieve. I had the grand idea to buy an inflatable pool. Nothing fancy, mind you. Just one of those big, circular, above-ground blow-up ones with the blue sides and cartoon fish on the bottom. A little escape from the sweltering Southern sun. Something to stick your toes in, float around on a pool noodle, and feel like you were somewhere luxurious—like a resort, or at least a backyard with a working sprinkler system.

I ordered it online, thinking I’d surprise Ma and Uncle R. It arrived in a box the size of a small coffin, and that should’ve been my first clue that this was no dainty kiddie pool. The picture on the box looked manageable. A cheerful family of four splashing, all smiles, no chaos in sight. Clearly, that family had a level backyard, a handyman on call, and no curious squirrels. We, on the other hand, had lumpy grass, overambitious ideas, and Ma on a folding chair giving commentary like she was narrating a wildlife documentary. Her and those squirrels are going to be the death of me!

The day we decided to inflate it, Uncle R insisted on supervising. He pulled out a lawn chair, his old fishing hat that he wets down and looks like Mr. Green Jeans in, and sat at the edge of the porch like he was about to witness a sporting event. Ma joined him, fanning herself, giving unsolicited directions and telling me I should’ve just bought everyone Popsicles and been done with it.

I unboxed the behemoth and started spreading it out across the yard. That was mistake number one. It covered a third of the grass, including the patch where Ma had recently attempted to grow something. What it was it had been struggling anyway, but you’d have thought I bulldozed a family heirloom the way she gasped.

“Didn’t even check the yard for sacred ground,” she muttered.

Uncle R just grinned and said, “This is better than cable.”

I borrowed an air pump from a neighbor because I could get ours to work. It took two hours, several swats at mosquitoes, and one near meltdown when I thought it was leaking, but eventually that pool stood proud and inflated in the center of the yard like a giant blue crown. The sides were surprisingly high, and the thing looked almost Olympic-sized compared to what I imagined. Still, it held water—and hope. It was time to fill it.

What I didn’t realize was that filling a pool that size with a garden hose is an exercise in patience and water bill anxiety (FYI our bill is normally under $50 a month). I left the hose running overnight, checking it every hour like a nervous new parent. By morning, it was about three-quarters full, and that’s when things got interesting.

Ma decided she wanted in. Now Ma hasn’t set foot in a swimsuit in public since the 80s, but she came out in a wide-brimmed hat, one of those skirted swimsuits from a bygone era, and a full-length robe she refused to take off until she was “poolside.” Uncle R followed behind in swim trunks that looked suspiciously like cut-off church slacks, a beach towel around his neck, and his ever-present fishing hat.

“I brought my pool noodles from a few years ago,” he announced proudly. “They still got some buoyancy left.”

The two of them climbed in—slowly, with more grunts and groans than necessary—and immediately began splashing each other like kids. Ma shrieked when a dragonfly hovered nearby, nearly capsizing the entire operation, and Uncle R declared himself King of the Shallow End, which was just the middle where the hose was still floating.

By that afternoon, the pool had become a full-blown attraction. The neighbor’s dog tried to jump in. Two neighborhood kids asked if they could swim, and I reluctantly said yes, hoping their parents wouldn’t question my lifeguard credentials (I have none). Someone brought over watermelon. Someone else brought plastic cups and a jug of sweet tea. It was the closest thing we’d had to a block party considering we live in the woods that back up to a state park.

But with all great glory comes a bit of chaos.

Around sunset, we noticed the side of the pool was… sagging. Not drastically, but enough to make Ma pause mid-laugh and say, “That’s not supposed to do that, is it?” I ran around to inspect and found that one corner of the yard—where the ground dips ever so slightly—was now soggy, sinking, and pulling the pool down with it. I yelled for everyone to exit immediately, which was met with groans, complaints, and Uncle R refusing to leave until he’d done one more lap on his pool noodle.

By the time we got everyone out and the water settled, the pool was noticeably lopsided. Still full, still functioning, but now leaning with the dignity of an old porch swing in need of tightening.

The next day, Ma insisted we keep it up until the weekend, despite the slope.

“Let it be. It’s our very own Shady Pines water feature,” she said. “Like one of those infinity pools, just… Southern and slightly crooked.”

Over the course of the week, the pool became a conversation starter. Everyone who passed by our yard commented on it. Some wanted to try it. Others offered advice on leveling the ground. One man tried to sell me sandbags from his garage. I declined, but I appreciated the neighborly spirit.

We did eventually deflate it. Not because we wanted to, but because a raccoon took an interest in it one night and left a suspicious tear in the side. By then, the yard was thoroughly muddy, the tomatoes were beyond saving, and my water bill had reached heights I didn’t know were possible.

But oh, the memories.

Ma says it was the most fun she’s had in years. Uncle R is already talking about getting a bigger one next summer, possibly with cup holders. And me? I’m just glad no one sprained anything or required a tetanus shot.

The inflatable pool may be gone, but the stories remain. Like that time Ma tried to wear her robe into the pool because she was “between swimsuits.” Or when Uncle R tried to float in a plastic lawn chair and nearly tipped over backwards yelling, “It’s a recliner, y’all!” We laughed until our sides hurt and our cheeks ached from smiling.

Sometimes, life at Shady Pines is quiet and calm. Other times, it’s a wild backyard adventure with pool noodles, unexpected leaks, and the sweet sound of summer laughter. I wouldn’t trade it for anything—not even a perfectly level lawn.