One of my father’s favourite stories was about me and a puddle. I was 5 and we lived in Eston, SK. Dad was vice-principal of the high school. He got a call at the school and a nice lady said, “is that your little blond boy in the big mud puddle in front of my house?” It was and dad came to rescue me. My rubber boots had gotten stuck in the thick gumbo that was the soil in that area of the province.
We are about three houses from the drain on our street. With the recent warm temperatures, the snow melt was getting higher and higher on our driveway. When you got out of the car, you had to take a big step to avoid getting water in your shoes.
Enough of that. I spent 20 minutes hacking at the ice that was blocking the free flow of water. Every time I knocked away an icy barrier, water would rush in on it’s way to the sewer drain. I made it all the way to the front of our house and, like magic, the water on our driveway went away.
Five or 61, it’s a lot of fun to play puddles.