Simply Slip ‘n Slide

As a kid I loved Wham-O’s Slip ‘n Slide.  Each summer my father retrieved that long tattered piece of banana colored plastic from some dusty corner of our attic.  My brothers and I ran the hose full blast and washed off the rust colored sludge that had accumulated from three seasons of hibernation. 

That first slide was always the sweetest.  The sudden rush of cold water would paralyze our bodies and shock our senses; a deep gasp would follow.  Our bodies were fleshy Hydroplane racers spraying water high into the air and far across the lawn.  Then, as quickly as it began, the ride was over.  Our bodies would slow to a stop in the mushy, soggy backstop of grass.  Newly laid spring bark from the rose bed stuck on our wet backs slathered with waterproof sunscreen.

Once, my brothers and I tried to extend our ride.  We laid down the blue tarpaulin at the end of our slide that my father used on the garage floor when he changed the car’s oil.  We splashed through the rainbow oil streaks that danced in the tarp’s water puddles.  But our youthful attempt to extend the summer ride just complicated the fun:  the longer scratchy blue surface didn’t compare to the short, sweet, super slick hyper-drive slide machine.

We always imagined that when we were adults we would buy “a million Slip ‘n Slides,” lay them all end-to-end, and slide so fast that we’d break the sound barrier.  When we daydreamed about our future summers we pictured, not adult versions of ourselves, but our kid-selves only with the endless resources we assumed all adults were privy to.  We imagined ourselves as larger children with the freedom to slide around on wet plastic all summer long.  

But as adults we don’t slide around on plastic all day (and we now take note of the emblazoned WARNING stickers on the box).  Our adult bodies are not the flexible bendable speed boats they once were.  Slip ‘n Slides make us sorer than the sunburn we get playing on them. 

But that doesn’t mean we should trash our youthful ability to see the greatness in something simple.  Sometimes all it takes to have a memorable summer is a garden hose and a long piece of canary yellow plastic.