One thing leads to another . . .

Monday night, April 20

I was so giddy with excitement at the prospect of a"new" deck, that I failed to recognize the funny sound coming from the washer. After a while, the high-pitched, yet faint wail finally registered in my brain, and I went to investigate. I thought maybe the comforter I'd put in earlier had jammed up the machine (a girl can only hope. I've got my heart set on a front-loader, and have been trying my damnedest to stuff this sucker full very chance I get, so it "breaks" and I can get a new one. Don't tell Bob). But, even after re-arranging the comforter, it still didn't kick in. 

I was pulling the half-soaked comforter out of the washer to hang outside when Bob walked in the door. "There's something wrong with the washer. It's not filling with water," I told him. Without hesitating, he asked, "Do we have water at all?" as he walked over to the sink and flipped the faucet handle. Nothing. What?! No water? Why would he think of that, when I'm the one who's been here all day? This is one of many differences between Bob and me. He possesses a cool logic at all times, while I can be indefinitely clueless (ask my sister about my surprise 40th birthday party. I'm sure I'm the only person on Earth who was truly surprised at a surprise party). Another difference? When a crisis rears its head, I immediately slip into self-flagellation mode: If only I had stuck with my original plans and gone into town to run my errands, none of this would have happened! I shouldn't have been doing laundry when Greg was washing the deck! We used too much water! I sucked our well dry! We're going to die out here! I start wandering aimlessly around the house, wondering what punishment will befall on me, once Bob realizes this is all my fault. Why did I want to refinish the deck, anyway? It looked charmingly rustic, in all its grungy glory. Why didn't I know that this could possibly happen?! If only, if only, if only . . . 

 

Bob, on the other hand, walked to the closet, pulled out the Yellow Pages, and made a few phone calls. When he hung up, he told me that Paul Vadnais and Sons are on their way. "They're one of the few plumbers who specialize in wells. He said it might just be a simple fix with the well tank or the electrical work in the house, or it could be something worse, like the well pump, which is down in the well itself, outside." If only, if only, if only . . . "Why do you think you caused this?" Bob asked. "You couldn't have known this was going to happen. It's probably just bad timing. Anyhow, we'll find out when the well guy gets here." If only I had at least showered this morning—who knows when my next shower will be?

Mr. Vadnais showed up about 45 minutes later, and after checking out all the well-related stuff in the basement, declared, "Well there isn't anything wrong in here. As I suspected, it must be your well pump," and went outside and started taking apart the metal submarine periscope-thingy sticking up in the corner of the front garden. Bob and I watched through the front window.

 

"That's the well?" I asked. If it is, we should replace it with something more attractive, like what Jack 'n' Jill had.

"Yeah, didn't you know that? It's technically the well head, which leads down to the well." Bob replied, as though he's been around wells all his life.

"Since when did you become such an expert on wells?"

"I'm not. I just remember that from the inspection when we bought the house."

"Oh." Why don't I remember things like that?

Mr. Vadnais finally came in from the cold (did I mention that it was overcast, with intermittent rain/sleet, temps hovering around 40 degrees, with a wild wind whipping from what seemed like all directions? In April. No wonder he commands $200 just to come out and take a look). "Well, it appears to be the pump, but I can't do anything right now, because I've gotta get at it first to find out what model it is." He launched into a lengthy, detailed monologue about pumps and wells, and liners and tanks, and voltage and such, which was my clue to casually walk away, leaving Bob to remember the details. All I remember is him saying we wouldn't have water until at least by tomorrow afternoon. That is, if it's only the pump that's the problem. He could have just as well added an evil cackle after that.

Bob and Mr. Vadnais headed outside to figure out how to get a truck and crane backed into our front yard, given that our house is built into the side of a ridge, and surrounded by trees and a rock garden, with no easy access.  Bob came back in and said, "Well, if it's just the pump that went out, and there's nothing else wrong, we're looking at about $1800 to replace it." If only, if only, if only . . . He also told me we need to remove the cute little Chinese cherry bush and take down some big branches off the birch tree, and move all the stuff that we had taken off the deck back onto the deck, to make room for the truck and its crane. "I'll run up to Holiday, and grab a couple gallons of water, too, so we can at least brush our teeth." Sigh.