Those Black Hoses

Yes yes yes, I remember those black hoses well!

Thick black things that might have been provided by whatever housing authority we lived under in the early days. Remember when they used to come through periodically and paint our houses for us? And I remember that the ranch houses were designed without closets, and most of us had these large pre-manufactured closets that could be pushed around from room to room.

We just took it for granted when we would go over to a friend's house in the neighborhood that they would have the exact same kind of closet in their bedroom as we did. Huge things, with sliding doors, and little compartments up top above the shirts and hangers where you could put things out of the way. I remember my father kept his 38 caliber pistol up there in the closet we shared, and I was never, not ever, allowed to touch it. And I didn't. I didn't obey many rules, growing up. But I knew enough to obey that one.

And I remember lying in my bed at night looking across the room at that closet, and the sight of my father's long sleeved shirts hanging there, barely visible in the darkness, would be alternately comforting and frightening over there against the wall. I slept with a flashlight underneath my pillow, so that when frightened I could shine it across at the closet door and tame whatever monsters I imagined being there. Even today, as I stagger towards my 80th birthday, I will sometimes see things in the dark that are not there.

But I no longer keep the flashlight under my bed. I figure that whatever it is that's out there will get me when it's damn well ready. And no monster worth its salt would be halted by the beam of a flashlight, anyway.

So yeah, I remember those thick black hoses.

Everybody eventually bought their own, once we took ownership of the houses in the mid 50s, and these new hoses, though thick and heavy, were more in keeping with the kinds of hoses you might find in the hardware store today.

But the big black hoses were everywhere growing up. Maybe you will remember as I do the tall, lanky fellow who used to drag those hoses around to water the hillside of Sacagawea School. His name was Arlo, I think. At least Arlo was the name we gave him and called him--though never to his face. He was a Giant in our eyes, and frightening the way he slumped around while dragging those massive hoses from place to place. You see, he was crippled in some way, or retarded as we cruelly called it back in those days.

He never spoke, and of course we never spoke to him, but he was physically impressive the way he would slowly lurch from place to place while dragging those hoses up that hillside and down again to keep the grass green for the school children who hid in the bushes and giggled at him as he labored.

Shame on us, looking back. Though we meant no harm. But forgive us our trespasses nevertheless, against that quiet, tall man moving slowly through the mean innocence of our world.

He was a constant presence in our lives, growing up. As much a presence as the Sacagawea School building itself that at the time sat there on the hillside at Williams and Stevens drive. Across from the cemetery.

The cemetery is still there, but the school is gone. Or been moved. Or something. I've lost track. But somebody mentioned those black hoses, and it got me thinking back to those days. And I'm grateful for that memory.

Terry Davis Knox "65"

• Those Black Hoses
  
• Party Crashers
  
• Fighting
  
• Parking
  
• Last Time Around
  
• Charlie Nevins
  
• Young Men And Fire
  
• Austin Healy
  
• Cathy
  
• David River's Birthday
  
• Han's Pavilion
  
• Muscles, Our Neighbor
  
• John Browne, Learning to Dance
  
• Your Brother Mark Browne
  
• Buster
  
• Celluloid Lies
  
• Nuked
  
• Learning to Box
  
• Dog and Goose
  
• Buses and Such
  
• Stealing
  
• Hookybobbing
  
• Stiles Old Upstairs Apartment
  
• Sign Of The Time
  
• Learning to Drive