Young Faithful
Tuesday, November 20th, 2007
When I was in grade school, back in the early seventies, I was a member of the safety patrol. I would stand on a corner near my house and block traffic with my orange plastic belt, shiny silver badge and long, yellow pole with an orange flag that read STOP on it. One afternoon, I was on my usual beat: the northeast corner of Fairview and Catalpa. A city bus was at the light preparing to turn northbound on Catalpa. When the bus began its turn, the back wheels jumped the curb and hit the fire hydrant on the corner. The hydrant bent roughly fifteen degrees and popped several bolts on its base. Immediately, water began to pool around the bottom of the broken hydrant. It was leaking pretty badly and would need repair. Luckily, there was a fire station on the northeast corner of Fairview and Catalpa.
So, I stuck my safety patrol pole in the gap between the sidewalk and the base of the hydrant and pried the hydrant the rest of the way over. The result was a fifteen-foot geyser of water spewing from where the hydrant had been.
It’s a good thing the fire house was right across the street because I hurriedly looked around to see if anyone had seen me pry the hydrant off. When I was confident that no one had, I ran home.
My mom asked me why I was so wet.
“Puddle.” I said.
