In October 1990, I moved to Travis Heights, a neighborhood south of the Colorado River in Austin, Texas. I lived upstairs in an old house on Newning Avenue for about 18 months before departing when it was turned into a bed-and-breakfast hotel. Fortunately, I found a reasonably priced half of a duplex just around the corner on Drake Avenue. I never expected to stay there for 16 years, but that’s exactly what happened.
During that time, the neighborhood saw some changes. A series of old and admittedly undistinguished houses were razed and replaced by a massive, upscale apartment complex. A street running along Blunn Creek was closed. There were other signs of gentrification here and there, and nearby South Congress Avenue saw considerable improvement. I shared a big, tree-shaded backyard with residents of four other houses. Mark and Linda Ahearn—our landlords—kept a number of chickens, and David Kendall—another longtime tenant—took special care of his vegetable garden. I had a barbecue cooker under the carport where I learned to make tasty meals of chicken, flank steak, corn and Texas toast. That backyard exuded calm. Although we were close to downtown, there was virtually no crime. The First Thursday block party, from Barton Springs Road to Elizabeth Street, started in about 2002. It drew people from all over the city and from elsewhere; I once met a guy who came from Kentucky just to see it and take part. I dare say some people considered Travis Heights the hippest, coolest area in Austin. The 78704 zip code was highly envied.
But I have yet to mention possibly the best aspect of living there—Stacy Pool. To be precise, there were two. At the northern end of Stacy Park was Little Stacy, a kids’ wading pool. On the southern end was Big Stacy. Both were built in the mid-1930s by the Works Progress Administration. It was no different from the two dozen other neighborhood pools in Austin except it was open year-round. In the winter, it was filled with warm water from an underground aquifer and you could jump in, and do laps or hydro-exercises of your own making. I do not deny that Barton Springs and Deep Eddy were even better, but damn, they charged! Stacy Pool was f-r-e-e, and I liked that. I lived in Travis Heights for 17 years and went to Stacy about 200 days per year (not to mention the hot summer days when I swam twice and sometimes thrice), so that comes to 3,400 times I so indulged myself. I made many friends at this pool, most especially Jill Montgomery and her two Russian-born children, Larisa and Sergey.
Since I was such a regular, I came to know many of the lifeguards. They were high school and college students, and young people not sure where to go in their lives. I liked them all and decided in 2003 to do something to acknowledge their efforts. I put up a sign on the fence announcing “Stacy Pool Lifeguard Appreciation Party” and urged my fellow swimmers to take part. A few did, but it was mostly me. On a weekend in July, I brought in numerous pizzas and soft drinks. They seemed happy to have this grass-roots recognition, which was repeated in 2004, 2005 and 2006. The next year, however (which turned out to be my last in Austin), somebody in city government put the kibosh on it. The lifeguards were technically civil servants, and it was improper to offer them gifts. When I was forbidden to hold the event in 2007, the lifeguards were perplexed and apologetic since we knew it was all on the up-and-up. The accompanying photo shows me with a few of them in the summer of 2006.
Oh, but that was not all. The neighborhood featured some Mexican men who pushed ice cream carts with the Spanish words “La Michoacana” painted on the side. At least twice I saw these fellows and directed them to Stacy Pool. I made sure to have plenty of “Benjamins” on hand and announced that ice cream was free for every kid aged 10 and younger. The initial response was hesitant, if not doubtful, so I gave them some encouragement. One kid came up, chose what kind of ice cream he or she wanted, I paid the man, and here came another. And another, and then many more. It was soon a madhouse with jubilant boys and girls eating ice cream, the Mejicano vendor making serious money, and me the happiest of all.
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