Fowl Play

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

“Shitter’s full, Clark!” Our family laughed at this classic holiday movie, sharing the quote in unison while snug in front of the fireplace. It was early November, and we had started our seasonal movie binge early, smugly content that our water closets were just fine.

But a few days later, our basement floor drain mysteriously refluxed a murky puddle. With the movie quote lingering a bit too close for comfort, we called the plumber, expecting a straightforward solution. Nothing a plumber’s snake couldn’t easily handle, we surmised. With a glut of family coming for Thanksgiving, loo efficiency was of utmost importance. Not only were we a spirited bunch of frequent flushers but, for this first Thanksgiving without my mother, the entire extended family would be together. 

Mom had passed five months prior and had been a good martyr, suffering not-so-silently about how she loved having the whole clan together for any holiday possible, even if guilting us into it on occasion. This year would be our homage en masse –with hopefully enough septic fortitude for at least 15 flushing kin– to the woman who loved to entertain.

The Potentate of Pipes arrived with his trusty cable and hit an immediate snag. Try as he might, persistent attempts yielded little forward motion. Connecting dots and checking the main outlet to our external septic system revealed gravel, not the inside of a lumen. He called us over with grave news: our ferrous canals, heralding from the 1960s, had disintegrated. Hubby and I looked at each other with wide eyes. Karma was clearly having the last (very loud) guffaw. Our shitter wasn’t full, it was nonexistent.

Over the next several days, our adopted houseguest progressively jack hammered open our basement floor, each section revealing iron dust where channels used to run, not to mention a stream of … well, you know. This huge whiz into the money pit ricocheted garishly across the entire floor. Each day brought more bad news, culminating in the necessary task to replace everything, even a portion outside the house. 

By now, we would return home from work, pour a progressively larger cocktail each day, and descend the Steps of Doom into the war zone of concrete, stench, and powdered rust to check in with the head plumber. At this point there were two, sometimes three guys taming the beast, likely commiserating their personal misfortune to have drawn this very short straw so close to Turkey Day. Even the sodas and snacks I offered weren’t quite enough. We were ALL suffering; it was the least I could do. 

But the best was yet to come. Nothing screams holiday fun like the coup de grace of a backhoe demolishing one’s yard. As more workers arrived things got exponentially larger and more complicated. The original owner lived next door and wandered over to ask what we were up to. I nonchalantly explained that we were simply looking for the gemstone rumored to have been lost in the house some years prior. We chuckled in temporary solace. 

Still several days out from T-Day, the crew assured us they would be finished by then – though my husband and I were not holding out much hope for either completion or any semblance of cleanliness. With severely compromised toiletry and a gaping hole in the yard, we entertained the idea of cancelling our soiree. Even Martyr Mom would have had to agree with this one. 

As new PVC conduit was laid and a jagged scar of fresh concrete crawled across the floor, a faint glimmer of hope loomed on the horizon. Thanksgiving was inching closer and the disaster was receding incrementally. At one point I entertained the thought of inviting our Pipe Masters to our Thanksgiving feast. They were practically family by this time and it seemed the right thing to do. Hubby assured me to hold that thought, as their interest in us had certainly – if not severely – waned by now.

A fresh cement scar and the absence of light at the end of a new, intact tunnel were now appreciated as among the most beautiful things in the house, representing a battle won with patience and persistence on everyone’s part. After an all-encompassing industrial strength clean, we heaved a huge sigh of relief, until the checkbook came out …

I am happy to report that The Feast did indeed happen as scheduled, with glasses raised, not only to dear Mom, but in deep gratitude to the modern convenience we should NEVER take for granted: to FLUSH with reckless abandon!

May your holidays be joyful AND tidy!