How green was my pool? It was so green …

When I built the house I'm living in now, I decided that, since it was in the country, and since I finally had room, and since I'd wanted it my entire life -- and since I was already headed for the poorhouse in a big way -- I was going to put in a swimming pool. So, back to the bank I went, to convince some clueless banker ... "lending counselor" ... "loan specialist" ... who had either begun his lending career that very morning, or had just returned from lunch at the neighborhood bar and grill. I'm just saying.

But, I did it! I smiled, I acted completely professional and as if I knew "all the ins and outs," and "had a handle on the financial aspects" and understood the "monetary ramifications of joining this equity line to the mortgage structure." Psych!

And, my banker approved the loan ... and I'm betting he's not working at that bank any longer ... or any bank in North Carolina ... or the world. But, the important thing is, money be damned, I got my pool!

That was in 2007, and aside from the fact that when they were wiring in the whole pump/filter system, they forgot to ground the wiring to the pool -- oops -- so that anyone who touched the water had instantly curly hair, if you know what I'm saying. Still, after that was fixed -- and our apology notes went out -- it's been great!

I love my swimming pool. It's not a fancy pool, it's not a big pool, it's just a rectangle with no diving board, deep end, fountain or jets. It's a plain-Jane pool -- and I love it. I need it. I have no other exercise, because I think I am allergic to sweating, I swear I am, so if I don't swim I'll never leave the couch, and that's the God's honest truth. (Although I did order Susan Lucci's Malibu Pilates Chair just this morning. Why? Because look at Susan Lucci! Please, she has been Erica Cain on "All My Children" -- and if you don't know who that is, just put the paper down and go golfing, because you are beyond help -- for approximately 300 years, and she looks exactly the same! She could be 33, she could be 53, she could be 73, who knows?)

Anyway, my pool has been wonderful, easy, low-maintenance and perfect, and I've taken care of it diligently, the way a mother cares for her child -- with love, discipline and pride -- and it has cared for me in return ... well, no one's drowned.

So, you can imagine my horror when we took the cover off the pool a few weeks ago, and it closely resembled the bog in the movie "Swamp Thing." Never, in four years has my pool been anything but crystal clear and pristine upon its opening. I believed it was part of my pool's desire to "give back" to me, after that whole putting-me-in-bankruptcy thing. But, not this year.

So, when the shock and catatonia wore off -- I often tend just a tad toward the emotional -- I ran screaming to the phone to call Bill. Bill is my pool guru, guide and mentor. Bill is the Swami of Swimming Pools. Bill is Bill Stuckey of Triangle Pool and Spa Co. in Chapel Hill, N.C. Bill and his wife, Lisa -- who answers the phone when you call, and calmly fields and defuses all emotional breakdowns before her husband hears them and hides in the hall closet -- are the greatest people on earth when it comes to taking care of a swimming pool. I also tend just a tad toward superlatives, but hey, if the filter fits ...

Bill came almost immediately -- he wanted to wait till he was sure I was past the sobbing stage -- and assessed the situation. As I verbally panicked and pleaded, Bill walked back and forth along the edge. He checked the pump. He took a vial of water and poured it into a test-tube-looking thing. He crossed his arms and stared at the water for a loooooong moment. He said, "Huh."

I stopped talking (which I'm sure was a blessing for Bill). Finally, though, I had to whisper, "What does that mean?"

"It means you're going to have me treat your pool for the next couple of weeks, and we'll get it back in shape," he answered confidently. He said a lot more stuff, but after that "we'll get it back in shape" part, I sort of drifted. I was in heaven. I could breathe again, and curiously, I think the pool started breathing again, too. So, I inhaled deeply -- and informed Bill that he cannot retire until I die ... or until that banker comes looking for me.

I knew he could do it. Bill is a god.

Vicki Wentz's column, which appears here on Sundays, is published in newspapers across the country. She is a high school teacher who lives in Chapel Hill, N.C. Readers may contact her at vwentz@mindspring.com.