My father had a hobby. I could have called him a hoser -he did like hockey and the odd beer- but he was over-educated for the slang, so I'll call him the man with a hose. The hose-man of Buckingham Drive had an obsession: Washing cement. Dirt and pebbles had no place to hide. And every little tree trying to grow between the cracks stood no chance against the hose-man. Have hose will spray His routine started with a car wash, next he watered flowers, the lawn, and then he finished with tree plucking, cement washing. It could have been ninety-five degrees, but there he was wearing his faded blue foundry coveralls, courtesy of Ford Motor Company. Underneath he wore a Pepe’ Joe standard issued white (fruit of the loom) tee shirt. The boxers I won't mention. Somethings you just don't talk about more than once. I went into detail in my post about laundry day at Wassi Lodge. To complete the attire; slip-on safety boots. There was only one thing missing: A better hose. My...
Our friends painted-wood-porch was our shelter from the storm. Most storms came from the west, and we could see them approaching from our porch. Our front porch was cement and had wrought iron railings, so it was a no-brainer; safety was across the street. The old wood porch was painted gray, and it was on an angle just enough to allow water to roll off like little waterfalls. We would wait for the flash of light and block our ears, but we felt the thunder in our bones. Between the flash of light and the rumble we counted Mississippi's, trying to guess how far away the lighting was; of course, when it crashes beside you, there's no need to tell time: Time stands still when you're shitting your pants. We watched many summer storms from that porch. But eventually, all storms end. We waited for clear skies, so we could play in the puddles. A rainbow's promise was God's way of saying “Okay boys make a splash” and we did. Camp fun and games Some storms took us by...