Yesterday, I unscrewed the green garden hose from the hose bib. It had been billed as the “last hose you will ever buy.” That last hose I will ever buy will be the first hose I throw away when I hook up the new, black, expandable hose that came in the mail this week.

I bought the last hose a couple of years ago. I’m a sucker for the last hose pitch. A hose that will go the distance.

This wasn’t just a hose; it was a slender companion that would be with me as I strolled amiably through the garden of my twilight years. This was a grandchildren-friendly hose, because is there anything more delightful than a small child with a hose of which he or she has control?

Not hardly and if that hose is your last hose, it’s even better.

“Papa didn’t care if we got soaked. My parents wouldn’t let me play with our hose because they were worried about me being wet and they were a drag in the way that parents are, but Papa was cool because Papa was Papa.”

That’s the kind of hose a last hose is. A hose you can pass on from one generation to the next. A hose that may be included in the sale of your house.

“Take the furniture, but if you don’t mind, I’d like the hose. I understand it’s a good one.”

The last hose you will ever own “doesn’t kink.” That was part of the pitch. A hose that doesn’t kink. People spend their whole lives looking for a hose that doesn’t kink.

The hose kinks. Not only does it kink but it double kinks. It kinks in two spots so if you thought your water pressure was compromised, the second kink eliminates all hope of washing the patio or filling the fountain.

Meanwhile the backed-up water pressure is exploding pipes underground and the hose bib is making that alarming sound like a jet engine stalled on the tarmac.

A few weeks ago, the last hose sprung a leak. When I turned it on, there was a violent stream of water coming through a jagged, dime-sized hole. I decided to work with it and aimed the provisional hole at a dusty patch of cement that required washing while I was using the male end of the hose for another task.

That worked fine until I moved the hose, flipping it over so the hole was now facing up, spraying me in the face and nearly removing my cataracts.

I took out a roll of duct tape, the last tape you’ll ever need, and wrapped six feet of tape around the hole. I turned on the water and the water blew through the tape as if it were tissue paper. The hole, the leak at the hose bib and the double kinks, were the fait accompli and a reason to withdraw my support for the last hose.

“Hi there! Thanks for ordering this hose from us,” read the card from Kona, my new Hawaiian-themed hose company.

“It means more than you know. Kona is a small business run by my wife and I and we strive very hard to create the best experience for our customers.”

No mention of last, but then again, the pleasure just might.

Contact Californian columnist Herb Benham at 661-395-7279 or His work appears on Sundays, Tuesdays and Fridays; the views expressed are his own.

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