Yes!
Instantly, whenever I turn on that particular type of sprinkler, I’m flooded with memories of the Texas Summer heat, huge wasps and huger dragonflies, two-a-day football practices, swimming pools, sunburns, and constant lawn-mowing. Every single time. I can still make the noise perfectly with my mouth. The rhythm - an obscure phoneme of my first language - is forever in my tongue’s muscle memory. Go on, I’m leaving the door wide open. Make your joke and go. I’ll be right here, making the sound at my desk, waiting for a robed monk to lose his temper again, pulling from his drawer an 18-inch ruler and demanding my penitent march to the front of the room. Hands outstretched, palms to the sky, two stings from the wasp then it’s over and I can go back to drawing in the margins, daydreaming about fancy girls in bikinis, and wondering what the hell I’m gonna do with my life if I ever do - as the monk insists - grow up.