Hose

The waves never stop.  We're five, spread out, singing, wading, head down seeking stones.  The beach is nearly empty but for us.  The water is cold.  Mid-July in Sheboygan, and it's enough to get within sight of the beach to cool off.  Mom carries three sets of shoes as we see whose ankles are hardiest for Lake Michigan's icy water.  The lake wins.  We're chattering soon, heading back to the car baking in the sun.  By the time we get home, we're warm, ready for dinner, just about to erupt into sibling snarls.  But our feet are still full of sand, and they're not allowed in the house until they're clean.  And that means the hose must be turned on and Dad has to spray them off.  No one likes this idea.  We use the towel, we wipe them in the grass, but no, the hose.  For some reason we forget this step.  We forget the requirement, the protests, and we forget, most importantly, that if we would just shut up, time it right, we could all get clean feet with warm water that's been sitting in the hose all day.  Dad reminds us of this every time, yet, inevitably, we all dawdle.  So what should be a simple, unmemorable task, has become a low trauma learning experience.  And the image that lingers is not one of us happily washing off and then heading in to change, it's of my Dad standing, the yard as his backdrop, holding the green garden hose, smiling goofily as all the warm water arcs, wasted, onto the bright green grass.