During a hot and humid
August day of gardening,
I had doused my head and arms
with water from the garden hose
and sat down on a rock
beneath the shade of an elderly dogwood.
The soft summer breeze
felt good against my wet skin.
As the water flowed
from the green garden hose on the flowers,
my thoughts returned to
the fields on the farm.
Whenever the rain failed
to quench the ever-thirsty crops,
Papa would turn to his infamous,
ill-mannered irrigation pump on wheels.
Whenever that beast
was running in the fields,
everyone in the surrounding area knew it.
The more Papa turned up the throttle;
the louder that mufflerless contraption roared.
Once the cranky pump was set in position,
Papa would be the first to coil
the pull cord around the pulley,
giving it a manly tug.
If the pump was stubborn to start,
which was its usual nature,
my cousin and I would take turns
tugging on the pull cord.
It always seemed to backfire,
sputter, belch, and cough
puffs of white smoke
when disturbed from its sleep.
Once aroused,
within minutes
cool, refreshing, life-giving water
would spew out of its mouth,
from a four-inch diameter barrel
pointed down some irrigation ditch.
Regardless of the deafening racket,
the flowing of the water
in the hot wide open fields
made you forget all about the noise.
With sun-baked skins,
cottonmouths,
and parched throats,
my cousin and I reveled and jitter-bugged
all in that wet stuff
as it gushed out into the ravines.
Papa never minded our silly antics
when the water flowed.
We worked hard; and
we played hard.
Once when Papa and I
were alone in the fields,
he tried to start
the green behemoth himself.
After several tugs,
he suddenly stepped away
and sat down
with his left hand on his thigh
and his right hand in the gray sand.
I cried out, "Papa!"
He quickly explained,
while holding his gray Stetson hat
and wiping the sweat from his brow,
that he was just a little dizzy
and out of breath and
needed to rest a minute.
I got up from attending to Papa
and went over to the sleeping monster
and wound the pull cord
around the starter pulley,
as if choking it to death,
and yanked in anger.
It only sputtered.
After several passionate
winds and yanks,
the beast was awakened.
Papa felt better and
nothing more was said
of his dizzy spell.
As I watched the water
flow silently from the hose,
I smiled thinking about
the water flowing out of that
old bellowing, grumpy pump
on two wheels.
I was hot, tired, and weary of
considerations on that
balmy August day.
But life's noises
didn't seem to matter to me
at that moment
when the water flowed.
