Well, well, well . . .

Tuesday, April 21

I'm wallowing in my own filth this morning, not having showered since Sunday. You don't realize just how much you depend on the simple act of turning on the faucet or flushing a toilet until you can't. Well, I'll just make salads tonight for dinner . . . take some greens out, rinse 'em—oh, wait, I can't do that. Cook some chicken, get chicken juice on my hands, turn to the sink to wash them.  Great—can't do that either. Use the john, and then remember that not only can I not wash my hands, but I can't flush either. It's beginning to smell like an outhouse in here. I spray the bathroom with a cloud of air freshener. Gag. The only thing worse than the odor of stagnant body waste is potpourri scented body waste. 

At about 8:30, a big truck appears in the driveway, with Paul Vadnais and Sons lettered on the side. Two men get out—Paul Vadnais with just one son—and wander around the front yard, eyeballing my rock garden, the big birch tree, the well head. I go out to meet them, and ask if they need anything.

"Nope, we should be able to back the truck in just fine. On second thought," Mr. Vadnais says, looking up at the beautiful birch in the front yard that has already sacrificed a limb for this emergency, "We might need a ladder and saw, in case we need to take down another branch to make room for the crane." I head to the garage to find the ladder and saw Bob had used last night, wondering how much of my tree and bank account will be left when these guys are finished.

If I didn't know squat about wells and pumps before, I certainly do now, thanks to the crash course I received from Mr. Vadnais this morning. Vadnais and Son remind me of the father-son duo on Orange County Choppers, on TLC. The father is clearly an expert in his field, explaining to me in layman's term, what is potentially wrong with our well pump, and what they need to do to get at it and replace it. His son interjects much more technical, yet useless information over his dad's shoulder, as though trying to one-up him with his newly acquired technical college education. Mr. Vadnais finally shoots his son a look that says, "Shut the hell up, or I'll clock ya right here in front of this nice lady." Later, when Mr. Vadnais gets in his truck and begins the complicated, backward maneuvering required to get his beast of a vehicle over the walkway, around the rock garden and into the front yard, I hear him shout out the window, "Get your goddamn hands out of your pockets and show me where to go!' I go inside, leaving father and son to duke it out in the front yard.

After maybe an hour or so, curiosity gets the better of me, so I head back outside to see the progress. They weren't kidding about a crane—it reaches high into the branches of the towering birch. Thankfully, no more limbs had to be sawed off. On the ground lay maybe 10-12 metal pipes (another tidbit I later find out is that each pipe is 20 feet long, they connect the house to the well pump, which is deep in the ground at the water level, which is 220 feet below the surface of the ground). In my garden, lying atop what used to be sprouting chives, is a long, thin, rusty torpedo-like object. "Is that little thing the pump that draws life-giving water into our house?" I ask? "Yup," says Son Vadnais. "It's not big, but feel how heavy it is—must be at least 50 pounds. It's pretty dang powerful." He hoists it up by some dangling wires. I take it from him and nearly drop it on his toes. 

"Well," Mr. Vadnais walks over to me. "Your pump did go out. I had to get it up to find out what kind it is, so I could call my wife to bring out a replacement. She should be here within the hour, then installing it shouldn't take too long—as long as that's the only thing we have to deal with." Again, a crack of lightning and thunder, followed by evil laughter would have been appropriate here.

I asked a few more questions: did our excessive water use burn out the pump? Is there something we should have heard/seen that would have alerted us to a potential problem? Is there some sort of "well maintenance" that we should have been doing to prevent this from happening? Simple answers, "No," "no," and "no." The crushing cloak of guilt immediately dissolved from my shoulders. According to Mr. Vadnais, well pumps should last a good ten years, but because they're subjected to such unpredictable conditions, there is no real warranty on them. A low water level could make it work harder, the pipes leading to the pump could become corroded, the well itself could be damaged in some way. He said he'll know more about our situation once they install the new pump and see how it's working.

"Do you mind if I take a few pictures of this whole thing?" I ask. "I need to document this, because, it is kind of funny in a way, that things always seem to happen like this for us—start a simple project, end up with a disaster on our hands . . ." "No problem,"  Mr. Vadnais says. "If you can't laugh, you'll cry, right?" He gives me a wry smile before turning back to his work. After snapping a few photos, I realize I have to leave for work soon. I ask if it's okay if I take off—Bob should be home in a few hours. "No problem," Mr. Vadnais says. "If he's not here when we're done, I'll leave an invoice for you and you can drop a check in the mail." 

So much for trying to nickel and dime our way through our deck project. Our "bargain" deal has now turned into a nearly four grand ordeal. I have to go to work with two day's worth of stink on me, not knowing if we'll even have water when I return over eight hours later. I'm leaving my house open to two strangers who could pick us clean, leave the pump unfixed . . . if only, if only, if only . . .