Dylan’s metal band was headlining at a very loud venue on a rowdy Friday night. It was 67 degrees after sunset, and the outdoor space was hopping. Twentysomethings danced and sang and bounced around in a blob, stopping only when the bands stopped playing.
I found Dylan running the sound board, melded into the scene. Both of us were wearing our musician-inspired, very expensive ear plugs and talking was at a premium.
Between bands, we stood up near the side wall, away from the crazed fans. People kept bopping up to Dylan, who leaned down to hear whatever they yelled into his ear. Then he yelled something back and they bopped away.
As the only old lady on the premises, I suddenly realized that I might be intruding on Dylan’s time.
“You can go hang out with your friends,” I yelled into his ear, quite sincerely. “You’ve hung out with me long enough.”
“I’m okay,” he yelled back. “I’m right where I want to be.”
This sentiment warmed my heart. In fact, it is still warming my heart more than a week later.
Dylan – who is nearly a full foot taller than me – stood overlooking the people, listening, watching. He was in his element – content, confident. I watched him with pride and a touch of envy, but mostly with an intense recognition that he’d grown into a fine young man.
I tapped Dylan’s shoulder, begging him down to my level so I could yell into his ear again. “You have a lot of friends here,” I said. “All these people seem to know you.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I guess.” He stared for a minute into the distance, then leaned down again. “It happened when I made the decision to stop beating myself up. I guess people like positivity.”
I smiled and nodded, unable to respond over the music. He was quiet for a full minute, watching the band and the people.
Then he leaned down and told me something that most people don’t learn. Ever.
“You become what you think you are,” Dylan said.
Then he went back to supervising the night. I stood awestruck and amazed. The band finished, and Dylan’s band got up on stage. I watched the entire performance, practically hovering above the scene I was so far removed, yet I was completely immersed.
I thought about what he said the next day. I love that he has such wisdom, that it’s helped him.
But I thought about what he said the day after that, too. And the next day. In fact, I kept thinking about it to the point of, possibly, slight obsession.
One day I randomly thought, as I often do: I am a fat old lady.
And then I heard Dylan’s voice again: You become what you think you are.
I don’t know if I will suddenly stop being a fat old lady, but I can say this: I might (and I do mean might, because I’m not sure I have the wisdom to carry this to fruition) – I might stop thinking of myself as a fat old lady.
I might instead start recognizing and appreciating the soul that resides inside this aging body.
I might start thinking of myself in a different way, a different light, so that I can become something more than just the exterior piece of myself, a piece that’s been letting me down for decades. I might become something more substantial, because I might think of myself as something more substantial.
Dylan rescued some Betta fish from our local aquarium before the end of summer. They live in separate tanks, because otherwise Bettas will kill each other. Dylan rescued the fish, and then he went back to college. So we have these two fish.
Tidbit was a tiny little thing, completely white – drained both of color and energy. White is the color of despair in Bettas. When they have no reason left to live, their color leaves their body and they begin to die. Tidbit was completely lethargic when we got him. But Dylan changed all that. Tidbit regained a ton of color and now charges around his ten-gallon tank, attacking his food with vigor – a completely different fish.
Hambone was a mystery. Pinkish-white in color, his eyes were enormous, glaring defects on the sides of his head. His ailment is called “pop-eye,” because his eye sockets literally pop out of his head. It didn’t heal with traditional treatments, so Dylan decided that he’s had a serious head injury. No one expected him to live.
We named him Hambone when Shane jokingly suggested it; the fish was responding stupidly to everything. He spent his days smashed between the filter and the side of the tank. Feeding him required waiting for him to find the top of the tank, then dropping the food directly on his face. In spite of everything, Hambone regained his color and – in spite of his disability – he is now thriving.
Over the last six months, feeding Hambone has gotten more challenging. His right eye is now as bad as his left, and he finds his food by following shadows, responding to the movement of the tank’s light when I lift the lid.
It’s sad, and Hambone often seems sad. He’s not zipping around like Tidbit.
When Dylan came home over Christmas break, he spent a lot of time on the piano which, coincidentally, is right next to Hambone’s tank. Dylan played for hours. His piano playing offers glorious music to a house that is otherwise pretty quiet.
So when he went back to college, everyone noticed – even Hambone.
Hambone was moping in his cage, and I realized quite suddenly that Hambone had been peppier with Dylan home. I wondered: was it the constant influx of music?
I raced to my 1968 Wurlitzer, which is in the same room, and played three songs for the fish, watching carefully. Hambone didn’t respond. So I sat down at the piano and played my one-finger version of Heart and Soul.
Hambone sprung to life. I played Heart and Soul for five straight minutes and Hambone swam around his cage excitedly. When I stopped playing, he stopped swimming.
I can’t play the same song with one finger all day long – but Hambone had been so excited….
So I rigged Alexa to play piano for him, which works until a commercial blasts at Volume 10. Then I tried Elton John and Billy Joel CDs – but Hambone freezes or hides during guitar riffs and blaring saxaphones.
Hambone only likes the piano. So Shane found an old bluetooth speaker, and I found piano music on YouTube that allows the music to play for hours without interruption. For hours each day, I play piano music for a legally blind fish.
Hambone has found a new life. He can’t see a thing, and feeding him is nearly impossible. But he’s happy – so obviously, swimmingly happy – that nothing else matters.
The longer the pandemic goes, the more likely I am to stay in my cocoon here at home. It’s very cold outside – and nowhere near as cold here as it is in other places – but I am happy to hibernate.
Every morning I wake up with nowhere to go and nothing to do, and I think, I don’t want to get out of this bed. I wonder about any upcoming activities and realize: I have to feed the fish. If Dylan hadn’t rescued two fish and left them with us, I wouldn’t even have this. But one of our fish is all-but blind now, and feeding him takes a minute. Plus I play piano music for him; he likes that.
So I consider getting out of the nice, warm bed (with it’s new mattress pad, which is lovely). I remember: I have to walk the dog. Loki gets walked twice a day no matter what the weather. When I finally roll out of bed, it’s usually because Wordle is waiting. Some days, this is a 12-second game, and some days it takes 20 minutes. The worst days are when I play after midnight, leaving me with no Wordle in the morning. Fortunately, then, I have Jeopardy questions and Luminosity. These are supposed to keep me mentally fit.
But lately I have been thinking: I don’t care if I’m mentally fit. Why do I bother? I still can’t remember why I jumped up and raced into the kitchen. I still don’t know the word for that thing that does the thing for the whatchamacallit.
I am virtually friendless, for good reason. I don’t talk to anyone, mostly for fear of putting them off, having them dislike me. I’ve been hurt a lot so I push people away rather than get to know them.
As has been the case since I had my very first friend, there are a couple of people I’ve let in. But I don’t make friendships a priority. Occasionally sports venture into my daily routine – softball sometimes, pickleball lately – and dealing with people is necessary for sports. It reminds me that people are my biggest fear.
Dealing with people feels like a lot of work. I worry all the time. I question every word I say: Did that sound weird? This thought is followed immediately by a horribly disturbing thought – the force that drives me in the world of people: Did I hurt her feelings; does she not like me now?
I am so consumed by this thought, so overwhelmed by it, that I can barely function.
So prioritizing people doesn’t make a lot of sense; I have decided to prioritize dogs.
When talking to my dog, I don’t ever think: Does he like me? Because he always likes me, and it doesn’t matter what I say or do. Even if I explode because he tore up the paper towels again, two minutes later he’s on my lap.
Dogs give so much and require so little; it makes sense that I should get a ton of dogs, spend my time with them, be an old dog lady. Maybe I’ll trade in this suburban lifestyle for a small place in the woods with a doggy door.
With the kids gone, if I weren’t married, this would be the path I would take. As a married person, I am required to compromise. I am required to deal with at least one person. So far, I can’t even get Bill to agree to get a second dog.
Yet the animals are literally the only reason I get out of bed.
I’ve figured out the problem with the world. As always, the problem starts with me.
I grew up believing I was smart. My parents – both college-educated, intelligent people – told me I was smart. I took some kind of test in elementary school that verified it. I got better grades than many of my classmates, and I graduated from college. So I believed I was a pretty smart cookie.
Then I met Bill. I’d met other people who, I knew, were smarter than me – lots of them. But I didn’t marry those people.
Getting to know Bill put my intelligence into perspective. Bill sees things differently than I do; he has a broader scope. He can figure things out that completely baffle me. He intuitively knows things that most people will just never understand.
And he is the most humble person I’ve ever met.
Lest I think that Bill is simply “differently abled,” Bill is also knowledgable in every single field, which makes him a trivia whiz. He knows science, geography, math, outer space, history, and government. He can fix a car or a computer, or anything in between. Before Google existed, if I really wanted to know something, Bill was the first place I’d turn.
Bill even explains his answers to questions, although I prefer less detailed responses because really, it’s a bit confusing for me.
Over the years, I determined that Bill is just plain smarter than me. And that’s okay, especially since he gave those good-brain genes to our kids.
I reason that my intelligence must be of some worth, since he decided to marry me. I try not to think too hard about this, since this may not have been his best decision.
Still, he stuck with me, so I must be smart enough for him. We have friends who are absolutely brilliant as well, and they put up with me. That has to count for something – but who knows?
A woman once told me a story about her first grandchild.
“She cut her finger and it was bleeding. You know what she did? She asked me for a ‘boo-boo sticker!’ She didn’t know the word ‘Band-Aid’ so she called it a boo-boo sticker! She’s a genius!”
I determined that that Grandma must be dumb as a post to think “boo-boo sticker” was genius. But what do I know?
Maybe none of us are as smart as we think. After all, of the wealthiest countries in the world, the U.S. has the lowest COVID vaccination rate. The 36% of adults who are still unvaccinated believe that they are smart, too. And they’re literally dying, just to prove it.
Today I was watching Judge Judy(which should tell you something about my intelligence right there). The episode was about a woman who had been suckered into working for a scammer. She’d given the guy $3,500 in cash and $4,000 in jewelry with zero evidence that the scam was even remotely legit.
After the show, the camera crews interviewed the woman outside the court room. She’d just been snookered for nearly $10K and here’s what she told the world: “I’m a Consumer Advocate for the State of Idaho,” she said. “And I thought I was pretty smart!”
That’s when it hit me: we are all idiots who think we’re smart.
And that, in a nutshell, is the problem with the world.
It started when Magic Kingdom began offering alcohol. I remember thinking: Wait, this isn’t right. This isn’t a Disney-like thing to do. But in 2018, Magic Kingdom started selling alcohol.
Walt Disney never wanted alcohol in The Happiest Place on Earth. It just doesn’t fit. Disney was headed down a slippery slope.
But Disney World has been my favorite vacation spot since we visited in 2009. So when I realized that Shane and I were going be five minutes from Disneyland – the original most magical place on Earth – I started planning our trip.
What I’ve learned is: sure enough, Walt Disney’s vision is no longer in charge.
On our prior trips, we enjoyed many of the biggest attractions with something called a Fastpass – a free paper ticket – free! – that would allow us to skip most of the wait. I would race from one side of the park to the other, grabbing Fastpasses for the whole family. I logged about 20 miles per day. But we rode a ton of rides and had very short waits in spite of overwhelming crowds.
Unlike Six Flags and Cedar Fair, who gouge customers by charging a fortune for Disney’s Fastpass service, Disney World included the Fastpass option in every ticket. Yes, Disney World tickets cost more – but it was worth it since everyone could ride virtually everything without much wait.
Later the Fastpass system went online: no more paper tickets! We could just log into our app and get our reservation times for each ride. We rode a gazillion times on the rides we liked. I only logged 10 miles per day on those trips. And Fastpasses were still free!
But during the pandemic, they discontinued the Fastpass system.
Now they’ve decided that – like Six Flags – they are going to charge a fortune for the pleasure of riding without waiting in line.
And for the pleasure of getting substantially less and paying substantially more, you can ride your favorite rides exactly one time without the wait. So if you want to ride Space Mountain twice, you are stuck in the standby line for three hours. The ride itself takes less than three minutes.
At Disneyland, even if you want to pay $20 per person, per day for the once-free service, the three most popular rides in the parks aren’t even included. You have to pay extra for those: up to $20 per ride for the biggest, best rides in the park.
But you’re only allowed to pick two of them. You will have to wait in the three-hour line for the other one. You literally can’t even buy your way out of the standby lines – which are obscene.
So for Disneyland, you pay $104-$164 per person, per day – yes, REALLY – just to enter the park. If you want the previously free option of skipping the line (only once per day!) that’s an additional $20 per person, per day. And if you want to ride two of the three biggest rides without waiting all day, add another $40 per person.
And if you’re going to Disneyland specifically, and you only have one day to see two parks like we do, you have to pay for the Park Hopper option – an option we never used at Disney World. This is another $60 per person for the privilege of walking out of one gate, crossing the sidewalk, and walking in through another gate.
All told, we will pay about $600 for two people to spend one day at Disneyland.
I am not crafty. I admit this to anyone who will listen.
So when I realized that my relatively new, cream-colored hoodie was comfortable but stained, I was at a loss. I’d bought a neutral color because it would go with everything – but it only “went with” the food I spilled on it – starting with red lentils and ending with grape juice.
That grape-juice dot on the sleeve was my sign: I could dye this shirt with grape juice. I’d just bought a bucketload of grape juice at Costco and then discovered I hate grape juice. So: two problems solved.
I researched and googled until I could google no more. Finally, I jumped up and threw my shirt into a bucket and drowned it in grape juice.
As suggested by many crafty bloggers, I let it sit for 12-24 hours. In fact, I let it sit for 36 hours, just to be sure. Frequently I pushed it around, stirred it, turned it over. It was definitely purple!
My crafty friend suggested that I find out how to set the dye. So, again thanks to googling, I transferred the shirt into vinegar-enhanced water and let it soak like a giant purple Easter egg.
It was gorgeous. I wish I had a photo of that brilliant purple color! I’d created a shirt I would be excited to wear.
But it was really, really wet.
That’s where I got stuck. After it had soaked and set, the crafty internet people disagreed. Should it be washed in cold and hung to dry? Or should it be washed in hot and dried in the dryer? No one seemed to know – or rather, everyone seemed to know, and they all contradicted each other.
My logic determined that if cold water with vinegar had already set the dye, then washing it with hot water – which sets a blood stain – was a good idea. So that’s what I did.
I wrung out the shirt to eliminate excess water, then I tossed it into the washer, set it on hot, and pushed “start.” Soon it was officially washed; I pulled it out to admire it.
Hm.
That gorgeous purple had turned into lavender. It was a nice lavender, but it wasn’t that gorgeous bright purple anymore. Still – it was nice. It was better than cream-colored and stained.
The internet gods said that I needed to wash it three times, so I did. After the second washing, I examined it again. This time, it was gray. Not puke-gray, but a solid, sporty gray.
After the third wash, it was a very light, definitely-not-purple gray. In fact, after three washes, it was most certainly puke-gray, the unmistakable color of an inmate’s jumper.
I tossed the shirt into the dryer. When it emerged with its vinegar-set, heat-set professional dye by Kirsten, there wasn’t one smidgeon of purple.
And while I couldn’t find evidence of red lentils or the purple spot of grape juice on the sleeve, the shirt now has teeny little pinprick-sized blue dots, making it look like I bought a gray shirt and stained it at least a dozen times with my leaky blue pen.
I don’t know what to think of this “new” shirt. I’m a little afraid that it’s somehow still going to bleed purple. Or maybe it will bleed gray.
I think I will do what I do with most of my craft projects. I will throw it into the garbage. Then I will buy a brand new, bright purple hoodie – created by someone else.
Let me say that again, with emphasis in the proper place: my baby just turned 18.
When I look at Shane, I can still see an infant with saucer-sized eyes. I can hear his toddler twang, a Southern accent he developed without living in the South. And I am still surprised that his hair is brown, as it’s been for a decade, because it was so blond when he was young.
I have heard that this happens with the youngest child – that moms can never quite allow that child to grow up. In Shane’s case, he’s been mature for so long, it would have been impossible for me to hold him back. He’s always made me wonder: how can he be so wise at such a young age?
But watching him grow has been like watching a slow-motion movie. He waltzed through middle school; the typical social scares simply didn’t apply to him. He went off to high school orientation without much of a thought: “How was it, Son?” “It was school,” he said. And while I took him driving for at least half of his required 60 hours, it was more like a hobby than a rite of passage – something to do during the pandemic, really. He tried it; he passed; he drives now.
I’ve been taking Shane on college road trips since he tagged along with Dylan to see campuses, and we stopped at a few indoor water parks on the way. College trips with Shane have been long and quiet but wonderfully compelling, keeping me on my best behavior and teaching me repeatedly that Shane is usually right. The colleges were never the highlights of these trips; I just treasured our time together.
Now, with only a handful of trips ahead and dozens behind, Shane’s birthday hit me like a thud, a brick against my head. Alice Cooper’s raw roar “I’m EIGHTEEN“ keeps echoing in my head, even though the character in the song bears little resemblance to my son.
Shane has reached adulthood. He hasn’t become stoic or stolid or any less fun. Shane hasn’t changed in any way; he’s still the incredible young man he’s been for so many years. But now …
He’s going to leave. He’s going to walk out that door; he’s really going. And he’s not going to be at camp for a week, which was tough enough for me to handle. He’ll be at college – likely hours if not days away – and he won’t be in his bedroom or playing the guitar or blasting his music behind closed doors. Shane won’t be home.
Shane will have a new home. He will call his college “home” and I will be happy that he is happy there. But secretly I will also be lonely and sad, because Shane’s home has always been here, with me. And my home will be dreadfully empty (sorry Bill) without him.
Now that he’s 18, Shane will be trekking forth to make his life elsewhere.
This is tough to know, to recognize, to believe, when I still see a child in front of me. My toddler-twangy baby boy is officially a man.
I only know how to handle this one way, and it the only thing I know to get through the unthinkable: I will take it one day at a time. I can survive anything in tiny chunks.
There aren’t too many celebrity deaths that actually bring me to the point of tears. But today Meat Loaf died, and I couldn’t contain myself. His death took a part of my youth with him.
Silly, I know, that someone who names themselves after a hunk of ground beef with ketchup would mean so much to me. I never understood the name. Perhaps his size – substantially reduced in recent decades – was the reason for calling himself Meat. Honestly, none of that mattered to my 14-year-old self; I just adored him.
It was the iconic Bat Out of Hell that resonated with me, the album purchased by more than 40 million consumers. Even after the rest of the world had tossed its albums in a corner, I bought the CD and blasted it in my car, my throat sore after every attempt to hold those power notes at the end of the title track. I never could hold them quite as long as Meat Loaf did.
Later Paradise By The Dashboard Light would play at frat parties so that the guys could watch the girls throw their drinks on the floor and swarm to the middle of the room, dancing and screaming lyrics at top volume. When the duet part started, some would sing the female part, some the male part, before we regrouped for the finale.
I always sang the male part: me and Meat.
I was a Rocky Horror fanatic for many years; Meat Loaf roared onto the screen every weekend on his motorcycle, with comically short hair and singing Hot Patootie. And every weekend, I was saddened when he was viciously murdered and eaten like the Loaf he claimed himself to be.
Meat Loaf showed up randomly over the years on some of my favorite TV shows, like House and Elementary. My husband and I started watching Monk during the pandemic and, wouldn’t you know, Meat Loaf showed up there, too.
Meat Loaf is one of the few artists my husband and I both loved. Bill had the “other” CDs; he enjoyed the sequels as much as the original. So when Meat Loaf came to Constitution Hall – a small venue in Washington, D.C., we immediately got tickets.
The concert was acoustic – his Unplugged tour for MTV’s series – and Bill and I had tickets in the seventh row. Powerful and compelling in song, Meat Loaf told hysterical stories, too.
Bill went to the restroom mid-show. He came back sheepishly trying to make his way to his seat there in the seventh row, and Meat Loaf stopped the show.
“Do you need a minute, Sir? We can wait.” The audience sang with laughter along with us. It was a great moment to be recognized by a great man, in spite of the reason.
We all knew Meat Loaf had health issues, that his heyday was well in the past. But I loved that he would appear randomly on the screen. And I still know every word to every song on that first album.
I only taught myself to play one of his songs on the guitar – and it’s the one that’s now stuck in my head, burning through my tears, wishing it were still true:
“Heaven can wait, and all I’ve got is time until the end of time….”
I am not a big fan of video games, but I am also not a big fan of dementia. So when I started losing track of words – like really, really simple words – I decided that I might need to start doing some brain work.
Since I’ve started eating better, my brain is actually responding better – but it is still not to the level I would like. So I googled “memory games” and found Luminosity.
Luminosity is tailor-made for folks like me: those of us who want to sharpen our brain skills, but don’t want to get out of our chair to do it. It offers three free games a day, each game geared toward a specific skill: attention, memory, speed, vocabulary, etc. (There is a “premium” package available if you really want to get in depth, but I prefer “free.” And three games a day is enough!)
I was playing Luminosity games when I was presented with a penguin character. The penguin needed to traverse a maze to get to a fish. It was the simplest task I’d ever been given – just push the arrow keys and guide the penguin to the fish.
There was another penguin in the maze, also trying for that fish. Whichever penguin got to the fish first could eat the fish. I couldn’t believe this was even a game; it was stupidly easy.
Then the maze spun. With the maze on its side, the arrow keys didn’t work right. Suddenly the up arrow didn’t make the penguin go up. The left arrow rammed the penguin into a wall. The down arrow made the penguin go backwards. And by the time I figured out which arrow to push, the maze spun again.
My penguin starved to death. The other penguin ate all the fish. For most of the game, my penguin was smashing his little penguin head into a wall. I absolutely could not get him to move in the correct direction.
Luminosity says this game tests and supposedly improves my “spatial orientation.” It reminded me of the pre-GPS days when I tried to read a road map to ascertain directions. I would turn the road map upside down, then tilt my head to the side, trying to figure out whether I needed to turn right or left at the next intersection.
I would stare at the map, completely baffled. Often, even after several minutes of study, I got lost anyway. Apparently I have zero spatial orientation ability. The penguin game confirmed this.
After the penguin debacle, I played a game that is akin to being an air traffic controller for trains. My job was to direct trains into their appropriate station houses by switching the train tracks as the trains chugged along.
At first, you get three station houses. The trains arrive, faster and faster, until your time is up. If you do well, you get another station house. After playing only three times, I was up to nine station houses. I rocked at the train game.
The train game supposedly tests and improves “divided attention” – the ability to simultaneously respond to multiple demands. This might be my very best thing in the whole wide world.
But I can’t make the penguin stop smashing itself into a wall.
I enjoy Luminosity; it helps me to learn about my strengths and weaknesses. And I will continue to play the penguin game when it pops up. But wow, I feel really sorry for that hungry little penguin.
We planted our little Christmas tree just as soon as Christmas ended. My job was to water the tree.
With the hose set directly under the tree, I was to run water daily at a slow trickle. This gives the tree deep, strong roots.
The hose, unfortunately, was six feet too short to reach the tree.
I whined to Bill: “The hose won’t reach! The tree will die!”
So Bill went outside and made a contraption – two long hoses together and some kind of new-fangled spout thing on the end.
“Now it will reach,” he said.
I ran the contraption through the garage to the tree. I watered the tree, then closed the garage doors and went inside.
Bill came home from work. “Why did you take the hose through the garage?” he asked.
“It wasn’t as muddy,” I said. “And I left the doors open while the water was running. You said I could drive over the hose with a car as long as the water wasn’t running.”
“That’s not the same,” he said. “You can’t leave it pinched under a heavy garage door.” Bill pulled the contraption out of the garage and wound it around the house to the tree.
For days, I watered that tree: turned on the spigot, set the timer, turned off the spigot two hours later. Then one day, I walked out to the tree to see how the new-fangled spout thing worked.
The hose was under the tree, but no water was coming out of the new-fangled spout thing. For days, I’d “watered” nothing.
This was Bill’s fault. “Why would you set up this whole contraption and not turn it ON?”
“Why would I turn it on?” he asked. “You were the one watering it.”
He had a point, but I didn’t admit this.
The next day, water was trickling down our driveway when I watered the tree. I whined to Bill: “Why is there a puddle on the driveway?”
“Because you put the garage door down on the hose,” he said. As Bill had predicted, I’d ruined one of the two hoses. At my request, he taped it – but duct tape doesn’t work on everything.
About that time, snow hit. The ground was too frozen for watering. At some point during the freeze, the leaky hose disappeared.
When the weather warmed, I looked at the tree. The hose was still underneath, waiting to provide those strong roots.
So I went out to the spigot, turned the water on trickle – and I remembered, for the first time, to check the new-fangled spout thing. I walked out to the tree.
The new-fangled spout thing was turned on, but no water was trickling. I turned it off, then on again. (It works for my computer.) But no water came out. Frustrated, I removed the spout thing – still no water.
Then I saw a kink in the hose – a big kink. I walked over, bent down, and untwisted the hose, sure that the tree would be blasted with water. But not a single drop emerged.
I threw down the spout thing, frustrated, and examined the hose. I looked for more kinks, untwisting even the smallest ones. Still no water! Finally I gave up.
I walked back to the spigot to turn the water off. That’s when I noticed: the hose was no longer attached to the spigot. The water was pouring straight onto the ground, making a puddle in the bushes.
To be fair, those bushes blocked my view.
I turned off the water. I reconnected the hose to the spigot. Then I turned the water on – again – and went to make sure the water was finally coming out of the end of the hose.
It was!
Unfortunately the hose is six feet too short to reach the tree.
