Day Twenty-four: Person That Gave You Your Favorite Memory

This should have been posted yesterday, so I apologize for the lateness. I'll explain later.

This entry is hard to make into a letter because several people were involved in this, my favorite memory. So I'll just talk about my memory instead. A lot of people don't really remember their childhood. In that way, I suppose that I'm lucky because I do remember mine--for the most part.

This particular memory is from when I was quite little--perhaps four. We lived in the house on Sampson Street in South Bend at the time, so I know it was before I turned five (we moved to Granger when I was five so that we could be in PHM schools). That little house had a really large backyard which sloped at the back, so it was ideal for sledding in the winter time.

It was a hot summer day. My paternal grandparents were over, and we were outside having a barbecue. My mother had set up the sprinkler so that we could play in it because of the heat. Playing in the sprinkler was always one of our favorite things to do as kids. Even when we had a pool at our disposal, we still liked playing in the sprinkler. The sprinkler is a vital part of what happened that day. We still refer to it as "the pickle incident."

John and I had spent the afternoon busily running about the sprinkler. Joel had avoided it because the water was fairly cold. He was still in diapers, which didn't really make for a whole lot of watery fun anyways. John had discovered that morning, however, that the spigot controlled the water coming out of the sprinkler. (We weren't fancy folks. Our sprinklers weren't in-ground, but rather, functioned via a hose.) Sometime that afternoon, it occurred to John that he could be the master of his sprinkler domain. He discovered that he had the power to decide who got wet and who didn't. He decided to wait by the spigot, plotting his attack.

As a side note which will not seem so random in a minute, Berlakovich children have always loved pickles. Pickles have been a staple to us since we were old enough to gnaw on them. Pickles are always around in a Berlakovich house. So, needless to say, there were pickles at that afternoon's barbecue. Joel, loving pickles as all Berlakovich children do, got himself a pickle and decided to wander around the yard--by this time, of course, John had turned off the sprinkler and was waiting for his first victim to wander over. I was seated with the family, enjoying a little packet of fruit snacks.

At some point, Joel spotted the sprinkler. He moseyed over to it, curious about how it might have worked. Just as his little face was bent over it, admiring the holes in the shiny metal, pickle in hand, John unleashed the fury of the faucet on the poor kid.

I wish I could describe the arm-flapping maneuver that my little brother pulled when the water hit him in the face. I can still see it in my head, and it makes me laugh to this very day when I think about it. There are no words to adequately describe what he did. He dropped his pickle, flapped his tiny little arms, and ran to my mother, seated at the picnic table on the concrete slab patio. He sobbed in my mother's arms about how he had dropped his pickle, which seemed to be the main source of his emotional distress. My mother offered him another, but it was for naught. He wanted the original, lost pickle, not some poor first-pickle substitute.

My mother resigned herself to going to pick up the other pickle. It could be rinsed off, she figured. It was sitting on the plastic of the sprinkler, so it wasn't like it was on the ground (don't judge my mother!). She knew, however, that my twin had suddenly become her foe. John was still by the spigot, still waiting, only now he had a taste for the sprinkler's power. My mother called out, "John, you better not!" but it was too late. His plan was already hatched.

When she approached, he turned the sprinkler on her too. Then, he ran away from the spigot. Priceless.