I have a thing about finding the water hose clumped in a pile. It’s usually so twisted that even when you turn the faucet on at full capacity, no water comes out. Only a whistling sound, like a siren, smothered by distance.
When this happens, first I curse. I’m usually still cussing as I walk out into the yard, dragging one end of the water hose with me.
When I’ve gone as far as I can go, the hose looking like a stretched out garden snake in the grass, I drop it and walk back to the faucet. Then I set my feet and in a motion similar to swimming the sidestroke, I start hauling in the line. It goes rhythmically. I coil the hose into a loose round circle so that it’s ready and user friendly for the next person. Never me.
When I do not go through this procedure, things don’t go smoothly. This happens when I’m too lazy to walk the water hose all the way out. Instead I stand over the pile of giant, rubber-made spaghetti, determined this time, to untangle the mess with muscle. I seldom win. Never without being swabbed with dirt, which I really don’t mind. I’ve just learned that swimming the sidestroke is infinitely easier than wrestling with what feels like a full-grown gorilla.
In the beginning, I was polite about my pet peeve, asking our yard man, and occasionally, house painters, “Please leave the water hose like you found it.” All claimed they would and the weird thing is - they do!
Which leads to the mysterious question: Who is the culprit of this water hose waggery? I couldn’t say. I only know that the rogue exists. Searches for a neatly coiled hose, takes to the air with one end and swings it around like a gigantic jump rope. I picture that, in a frenzy of merriment the little rascal twists the rubber in places as though wringing out a wet rag and finally, drops it to the ground. Flying off in glee, to create more higgledy-piggledy.
Mind you, I’ve never seen this mischief in action, only the aftermath. The water hose rogue loves messing with folks like me. Twisted devil.