THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 2 of 6)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 2 of 6)

© Jayson Slade 2010

My part of the yard work would probably have taken the standard adult about 30 minutes. But given my inablility to give a shit about finishing anything in a timely manner, my little 7 year old self would drag things out for hours on end. I'd moan. And I'd groan. The end result was almost always the same. My dad would come to me and give me some rationalization that being lazy was not what he expected, but it still didn't change things. Hot was hot. And hot meant slow. No matter what I did or how I thought, I couldn't see that being in a hurry had any merit. This was a trait I'd not soon outgrow.

I'm not sure if summertime in those days was actually hotter than it is now or if it just seemed hotter because of my build. I was about average height as the other 1st graders, but I wore ToughSkins. ToughSkins were dark blue jeans made of slightly thicker denim that never even looked comfortable. No matter how often they went through the washer they were still stale. The insides sported reinforced knees which were embarrassingly noticeable after just a few washings. They also made a horrible "swishy-swishy" sound with every step. I think ToughSkins and Chinet paper plates were created by the same guy.

My mom told me over and over I was to wear those targets of elementary ridicule because I was so rough on the knees of my pants, but I knew it was because I was chunky. I don't think I was fat. But I know I was chunky. I know this because my Mom insisted I was not chunky, which only proved that I really was.

Back in those days the highlight of the classroom was running toward your desk and sliding on your knees. Or running to the coat rack and sliding on your knees. Same with the lunch box cubby. I'd run, if the first two or three steps can actually be called running, full speed and drop to my knees. I'd slide a good half a foot or so along the hard tile of the classroom. It felt like three or four feet at 7 years old. I was an olympic star.

My mind conjured images of the long jump where Joe Hurdler lands heels first with arms out front in the sand as pebbles of sand and dirt skoonch into the air. His frontal thighs and chest meet, relaxing his backside into the sand. My version was only this glamorous in my own mind. But I could see it plainly there. I was a titan.


(to be continued)