Monday, April 26, 2010

Sunday Morning Storm Warning Dead Pump Muddy Dog Dead Mower Blues

The thunder storm scuds across the sky like a dark and malevolent crab. Pushing wind and rain in front of it, the creatures lashes out with a bright and electric claw, stealing light from the dawn and turning it into electric flashes. The canines are uneasy about this, and Sam tries to become a conjoined twin. The windows rattle slightly. The rain begins to fall harder. I want to film this.

There it is, bird singing wildly in the background, the sound of frogs still croaking madly, and suddenly the perfect roll of thunder, harsh, discordant, huffing, and wait, huffing? Bert has decided to start breathing like a pervert on a payphone for some reason. There’s the sounds of Lucas ganging his food dish against the wall, and at the end of all this, the phone starts ringing.

It’s Sunday morning. It’s raining like hell. Elbow is having an emergency. Sigh. Video will have to wait. The rain slackens a bit as I review the situation. Elbow babbles. The woman talks nonstop when she’s nervous and because she is a woman without running water, or rather water running into her house, she is nervous. A limb has fallen and broken the water line coming out of the tank of her well, and water is now gushing out and onto the ground. As I open the breaker box on the outside of the house, the heavens open up, and the deluge begins. None, not one, of the breakers are marked in any way. Worse, there is a slight depression in front of the box and I am soon in ankle deep water while playing with electrical switches in the middle of a storm. None of them seem to affect the flow of water from the tank. There is a better than average chance this is the one well on earth that runs off of bad luck and the power left over from ill timed, and ill prepared, repairmen being stuck down by lightning, for having the temerity to work in the rain. The girlie umbrella Elbow has loaned me, with its lacy frill and very short handle, tends to direct the torrent of water not so much away from me as towards the box. The irony of trying to fix a well in the middle of what Noah had taken so much time to prepare for is not lost on me.
Other than the main breaker that kills off half the electricity in Hickory Head, nothing seems to work. There is a box lying on the ground, half covered in dirt, rust, spider webs, and a soft prayer, whispered. I pull the cover off to discover it’s the power box of the well, and there is one very large spider inside of it. I’m not in the least bit of afraid of spider, but rather the problem is I would like to poke at it, and get it out in the open. I’d like to see how large this thing is. Shame the heavens have redoubled their efforts to drown me, and Elbow is now directing traffic from the porch. But we do figure out the box does kill the power to the well. Elbow is not a woman without some influence. She knows who to call on Sunday morning for the first assault on the well, and now she plans to bring in a professional to do the pipe work. I am not in the least insulted. Some people have dashing good looks and some are handy with tools. I got neither, but I assume that one day I will figure what I do have, and it will be better than either. I retreat in favor of a real plumber, and head home to video the storm.

I get home, take a shower for some reason that strikes me as rather odd once I’m actually in the shower, and then dry off. The sun comes out. Okay, no problem. I have to mow the grass anyway, and this is my third season of having a riding lawn mower, an addiction if I ever had one. For the vast majority of my life, and certainly my youth, was spent push a mower when there was grass to be cut. My father owned a yellow push mower that had a twelve inch cutting path and it weighed eight-eight pounds. And it has square wheels on one side too. And the grass came out of a chute in the back straight towards my face. Some people have fond childhood memories, and I do too, but they aren’t of my childhood.

The mower won’t crank so I have to jump it off. The downside is the mower won’t run without someone sitting in the seat. I have to stop the mower, find a strap, strap the seat down, and rejump the damn thing. All is well. Bert thinks he needs to cool off so he rolls in the mud and looks all the world like an alien. I can handle this. I get the backyard done, and as I begin the front yard there is a sound like crashing thunder. Struck by lightning, I have been! No, wait, I just ran over a piece of metal the size of Maine. Not the battleship, the state, on the other hand, maybe it is a piece of that ill fated boat. The mower is mortally wounded. I get the metal removed and it will not crank again. One blade has an odd crook to it as if I ought to be out with sheep. Maybe that’s what I have; I am the world’s best shepherd and have yet to lead my flock. I would get the yard shorn quicker with sheep, and lo, I push the riding mower back to the shed. Bert wants to come in but he is covered in mud. I have to dry him, brush him, and all the while I am setting a terrible example for dogs not to do something and I know it.


Thusly ends my Sunday, unsightly, and forlorn, with my yard half shorn.

Take Care,
Mike

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