I am hiding crouching the gazebo, hiding from that 8 year old with the super water pistol. Damned thing squirts 30 ft. And, it has a big water supply. If I directly tell him not to squirt me, he will refrain. But where’s the fun in that?
I boasted that if he did squirt me while I’m digging a hole for Lynn’s transplanted bushes, I’d take that water gun away and squirt him with it. I managed to do that a while ago. But the truth is I have to catch him first. He’s getting faster and stronger while I’m declining. I didn’t think I would ever need one of those things. I don’t have anything to defend myself with. I filled a plastic cup with 4 or 5 oz. of water. If I’m still for long enough, I might lure him within range. 70 year old men are embarrassed to lose to 8 year olds but I am getting used to it.
There is a kind of instant wild delight in sneaking up on him, waiting until he turns and his eyes dilate with fear, excitement and fun and then whacking him with enough water to let us both know I scored. It is fun to hear his squeal of delight and challenge and even to feel the cold stream between my shoulder blades as I try to get away in time.
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Yesterday's post on reading these messages produced this comment:
Bill, your communication group is a new experience for me and I like it. I like being part of a group and this group in particular. Believing you to be open to all kinds of folks, I imagine that we are not all alike, but I also believe that we are all “interesting” in our own ways. That seems as good a reason as any to belong.
Do you want to share this with the others, my brother and sister Kirbyites?
Do you want to share this with the others, my brother and sister Kirbyites?
