The Hose Pipe

Posted by becky on April 13, 2011 in From the Heart, To Make You Smile |

The hose pipe, what kid doesn’t love it. This long snake-like slinky tube that sprays water!

As I came across this picture, I immediately rolled back the clock to childhood. But, one particular incident came to mind.

As I set the stage, I am 3 years old {prime age for playing in water}. I am a petite blonde-haired, green-eyed little girl that loves her daddy very much {the daddy’s little girl thing}. I have been given an opportunity to spend some one on one time with my dad, something of a rarity with his swing-shift work schedule. Grant you this one on one time with my dad has not come without a price.

My mom, being the go-getter immaculate yard keeper, pick up every pine cone that falls, person she is. {I do not exaggerate this, she has been known to watch the pine cones fall and pick them up within minutes of them touching the ground}. With my dad and brother gone to a baseball game, my mom sees that the grass needs to be cut.  Now, she has done this hundreds of times {always with the same warnings from my dad} “just be careful out there on that bank” he would say. This day was no different, warning heeded, but to no avail.

You see at our house the front porch was encased with wraught iron fencing all the way around and a gate that was tricky to open for little hands.  As I think back, it was a delusory cage for children. I was the child behind these bars. Three years old locked in prison bars while my mom mowed the grass {on the dreaded bank} with a push mower and bright white canvis tennis shoes! You might have already guessed, she did it, careful or not, the mower rolled back on her foot. Lawnmower blades hit the bright white canvas tennis shoes which were not good protection for the foot inside the shoe!

First of all, my aunt and uncle lived across the street, they were home and ran over immediately. They first calmed my mom and then they opened the bars and retrieved me from my prison. Mom was fortunate, she did not cut anything off and the doctors were able to repair the mangled foot that had was no match for the lawn mower blades.

So, while mom was in the hospital for a few days and my big brother was at school, daddy and his little girl {me} were given some one on one time.

Now, dad was your typical late 1960’s “bring home the bacon” while mom takes care of the household {including the kids} kind of guy. Might I add, he had probably never washed a head of hair like mine. As I said I was three, my hair was blonde but I left out the part that it was so long I could actually sit on it {honest}. Have you ever tried to brush out hair that long? It seemed as though each individual hair knotted itself in an attempt to see if it could out-knot the hair strand next to it? That was mine. Mom knew how to wash it. Mom knew to run the water through it keeping it as straight as possible and first and for most she knew you must not assist the knotting process and of course {at least to her} spray it with “No More Tangles” {whoever named that stuff had not seen my hair} comb gently, not to pull {it still hurt}.

Okay dad had put it off for a few days, he wouldn’t admit it but this was a monster he was scared of. Mom was coming home the next day, he had to show her he could handle things. I had ran around barefoot, with mismatched clothes and my hair pulled up {in what might could be called a ponytail if you had your eyes closed} for the biggest part of three days. Dad knew this must come to an end.

“Sugar” that is what he calls me, “let’s wash your hair”. I might have been three but I knew this was gonna hurt me!. As I approached the kitchen sink, {that is where mom washed my hair a lot because of the sprayer} dad went outside. I followed. As he neared the hose pipe, I smiled!

Yep, that’s what he did, washed my hair right there at the back of the house with the hosepipe. The water was cold, the day was hot and I was happy. Sounds with a recipe for a good day of hair washing to me.

I don’t really remember much about the details of him combing out the tangles {I actually think he did very little combing at all}. Then, I slept on it that night {what three year old doesn’t waller at night}. Need I say more.

Tomorrow came, the house was in good order, dad had finished mowing the yard while mom was in the hospital and I was ready to see mama. But, was she ready to see me? Now, my mom thought I had to be just so, so. Remember, men don’t always think the same things are important as women think important.

I don’t recall much except for the excitment than ensued when I ran to put my arms around mama. “What did you do to her hair”, she asked? My dad said, “We {he had to make me an accomplish to this one} washed it”!

Mom’s face was red. I smiled and said something like, “Mama, daddy washed it outside with the hose pipe”. You would have thought he had washed it with motor oil from her reaction. This was totally unacceptable to mama.

It went on with “Why would you?”, What were you thinking?”, “That cold water will make her sick”, “I’ll never get the tangles out of her hair” and whatever else she mumbled under her breath as dad done the manly thing and retreated.

The hosepipe, the best hair-washing I ever had and in the top ten of the worst times dad got chewed up and spit out {more than once} by my mom.



This piece was inspired by The Red Dress Club.


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