Mosquitoes took turns licking my legs in swarms while I squeezed down the water spout with my foot. At times, when groups of swarms vultured in I would jump away from the puddle. The worn threading on the spout and hose sent streaks of water in all directions, leaking out a murky pool. The hose went limp and Grandpa would call, "Marik."
After rubbing my shins down with my palms and dirty nails I jammed my foot back through my sandal and stomped on the spout. A miniature bubbling spring erupted under my foot, burbling as long as I could bear the mosquito bites.
Field lights poured over a Jr. baseball game. No matter how hard I squinted I couldn't make out the red dotted numbers on the scoreboard, but a CLANK, followed by waves of cheering and applause kept me informed of all the good parts.
"Fsyo!" Grandpa called out. I jumped out of the puddle again and scratched my naked legs and knees with my fingers, palms, forearms and elbows. Going back to the watering hole I unscrewed the hose and rolled it up. Muddy water rolled into my armpits and bits of earth and grass filled my hand with each stroke of the hose. Wiffs of Grandma's hand-picked horse manure plugged my nose as I walked down the path to my car.
Grandma was already buckled up shotgun. I dropped the leaky hose in the back and shut the trunk. Glancing into the quiet woods I strode to the driver's seat, remembering that my brother had found a pair of handcuffs there when we were kids.
After a failed attempt to evoke pity for my mosquito bites Grandpa said, "You should have used a stick to whip them away."
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