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I never understood how he could get so wet.
Yesterday, he stood at the door dressed in
a soaked sweatshirt, flooded boots and flashing smile.
I yelled, "don't get wet again! It takes three days for your boots to dry!"

Today, we are visiting the Beaver Dam,
delighted that there is activity around the den.
Fresh felled trees, floating in front of the entrance,
indicate that for now the traps have been eluded.

Suddenly, the children are wading in the knee-high water.
They are exceedingly, sloggishly, sopingly sodden.
They have chosen to happily, sloppily, slosh in the swollen swamp,
with little regard for the consequences of their actions.

I was reminded of a moment in my childhood.
Standing in a stream at the edge of a swamp,
where I was once "captain of my wooden ships,"
I raced broken twigs and ice-cream sticks.

Worried my wetness would cause my mother to scream,
I quietly slithered up the farmhouse's creaking staircase.
I remember being relieved that someone else was in the room.
I knew she wouldn't holler in front of a visitor.

When you get old, you don't like to get wet.
You cover yourself from even the mildest summer sprinkle.
But when you are young, and tadpoles are your friends,
you ride your bike to the movies in the rain,
splash in the brook, and jump into mud puddles.

Tonight, my son and I stand in the hallway.
Our clothes are dripping into a pond on the floor.
We are both drenched and laughing.
No one is yelling at us.