The water!

Twas a month before Christmas as I lay in my bed, pulling my knee up toward my head—flex exercises, you know—when suddenly in my head there arose such a clatter I suddenly knew what was the matter!

The water! I dropped my knee, leapt from the bed, dashed down the hall and out the front door. The golden crescent moon shone lightly over the desert museum tree as I scurried to the outdoor faucet and gave it a solid turn to the left. Whew!

Twas a month before Christmas as I lay in my bed, pulling my knee up toward my head—flex exercises, you know—when suddenly in my head there arose such a clatter I suddenly knew what was the matter!

The water! I dropped my knee, leapt from the bed, dashed down the hall and out the front door. The golden crescent moon shone lightly over the desert museum tree as I scurried to the outdoor faucet and gave it a solid turn to the left. Whew!

Still in my pajamas, I checked the sidewalk in front of the house, looking for streams of water, expecting the neighbor’s yard and the street to be flooded. I’d turned the water on that afternoon and carefully placed the hose at the foot of the tree, hoping to encourage the museum tree’s leaves to return to their former plump green selves after a week of blistering hot—dry Santa Ana hot—weather. The tree didn’t like the dry heat any more than we humans did, especially at this time of year when sounds of Christmas and snowmen are everywhere.

It was around ten-thirty that I’d been lying in bed after a long hot day, reluctantly doing a few exercises to keep those nighttime muscle aches from coming back when something—I have no idea what—triggered a memory in my brain.

Oh, no! I forgot to set the timer after I turned the water on this afternoon under the museum tree. I hadn’t given it a second thought—until now. What caused that sudden resurgence of memory I’ll never know, but if you happened to be driving by and saw a body in pajamas and slippers dashing out the front door under the porch light, well—that was me.

What you wouldn’t have seen was a flood of water in the street. I was totally surprised. The museum tree roots had drunk every last bit of that water—they must’ve been really thirsty. As I turned off the faucet I pulled in the hose, expecting a stream of water to flow out of the end. I thought I’d left the water running at a pretty good rate, but as I pulled the hose back to its clay pot container, only a small drizzle came out.

Lucky for me. So now that the water’s been shut off I sit on my bed in the middle of the night telling you my story because if I wait ’til tomorrow I’ll forget all that stuff about “ ‘Twas a month before Christmas…” Midnight is not a good time for telling tales but if those tales invade my head at such an inconvenient hour, one thing’s for sure: the next day the tale will struggle in the telling. All the previous night’s thoughts will have dissipated as I slept through the night.

I’m still trying to figure out what set off the alarm in my brain. Surely doing flex exercises in bed has nothing to do with leaving a hose dripping water on a museum tree in the front yard. Maybe I was thinking about all this hot, dry weather.

In case you’re wondering about those flex exercises, yes, I finished them off before I hauled out my computer to tell you my tale of nighttime excitement. Luckily, tomorrow’s Saturday, so I can sleep in—if I can get any sleep at all after all this excitement.