The Hose-Man of Buckingham Drive

My father had a hobby. I could have called him a hoser -he liked 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 black safety boots. There was only one thing missing: A better hose.

            The gift that keeps on giving 

My mother decided that since she had received her share of unromantic practical gifts from her husband, that a fifty-foot rubber hose and reel was a good idea. Call it a payback. But my dad was on cloud nine. A new toy. He no longer had to roll the hose up by hand; he just had to turn a knob. The payback was soon to come.

Stay away from the spray

My dad would spend the whole afternoon watering the cement and waiting for an opportunity to soak anyone in his path. My mother would open the door a crack to tell him lunch was ready, but he was ready too. Like an outlaw spraying a saloon door. Gotcha! She thought she was safe doing dishing. The sink had a couple opened windows letting in a welcomed afternoon breeze. There was only one problem: Dad wanted to help her cool off. The hose-man of Buckingham strikes again. Gotcha! The screen windows were powerless to the stream of his high powered prankery.  She was soaked and the kitchen floor which probably could have used the cleaning anyway, was a puddle. I wouldn’t be surprise to hear my mother utter her go to rant "Wouldn't that just frost you" The moral if the story:

     Never give a man a hose with a hair                                  trigger