The kids raced up the lawn and onto the Slip and Slide, where they slipped and slid, screaming and laughing and tugging their swimsuits into place. After too many cycles of bent knees sliding, they stopped, detached the hose from the game, and started looking around at everything in the yard that wasn't wet. The porch wasn't wet, the driveway wasn't wet, and the garage wall looked New England crisp. Sitting on an old towel, I wasn't wet either. And, let's face it, soaking me with the hose would prompt more of a reaction than, say, spraying the driveway would. "Hey, let's get Aunt Joanna!" my niece stage-whispered to my nephew. Oh no! "Please, please, don't get me wet!" I cried on the hottest day of the Rhode Island summer. Slowly, I stood up and started to mock-run away, begging them not to soak me, but secretly wondering what was taking so long.
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