Water divining, Virginia style
The thing about Middle of Nowheresville is, drama takes a long time to unfold. Entire European dynasties have risen and fallen in the time it takes the man behind the counter at the gas station to count out 15 cents change.
But this week may finally see the conclusion of one ancient mystery: the location of LandladyLynn's septic tank.
My entire oeuvre of knowledge on the subject of septic tanks until last Tuesday was gleaned from a TV commercial in which a cheerful man in overalls implores you to use his patented drain potion, or else (cut to picture of very large bulldozer) your lawn might end up like this (cut to what looks like the battlefields of Somme).
For the similarly uninitiated, let me explain that in these ere parts, there are no civic sewage arrangements. Instead you have a nice tank buried in your garden, into which all your waste goes. The water rises to the top and flows out through trenches of sand (also buried in your garden). Then you hire a bunch of cooperative bacteria to live in the bottom of these tanks and munch up the rest. All you have to do is empty a few packets of yeast (and, if you're feeling nervous, some patented drain potion) down the loo every so often, get your septic tank pumped out at least once every five years, and et voila.
The only problem is, it turns out that LandladyLynn's septic tank has not been pumped out for as long as fifteen years, because noone - not even with the help of plans and blueprints and god knows what else - has ever been able to work out where it is buried. Over the years, a steady procession of gentlemen with and without overalls have wandered around poking the ground with sticks, but the location of the sewage grail has remained a mystery.
Today saw the latest septic tank desperado arrive, armed with a stick with a natty yellow plastic handle. I was, as always, torn between a desperate desire to learn more about the art of septic tank divination, and the sure knowledge that if I uttered a single word, all work would cease for at least forty minutes while the septic tank man remarked upon the fact that I don't sound like I'm from round here. So I settled for mutely observing proceedings from a balcony.
It was too much to hope for that the man would come up with anything today - this fifteen year old drama would never be solved so easily. But he poked around, and in the absence of any better ideas and in the best tradition of the US Army Engineer Corps, announced he would be back tomorrow with a bulldozer to dig up the drive.
* * *
Yesterday afternoon saw the arrival of LandladyLynn back from upstate New York, where she was emptying the contents of her late mother's house. Her Landrover was full of vintage treasures, including gloves, pocketbooks and heaps of fur accessories from the forties and fifties. Most of them were old mink Jackie O pillbox hats, capes and cuffs, but there was one item in particular that shocked even me (and I'm a known fur fan) . It was not one but two entire fox pelts tied together as a scarf - complete with heads, tails and worst of all, paws with claws still attached. There was one horrible moment when, coming back into the hallway, I caught sight of four paws sticking limply out at peculiar angles from under a blanket and I almost screamed - I thought it was the cat. And so, it seems, did the cat himself, who vanished into the upstairs linen cupboard and remained there for the rest of the day. A little bit too close to home, maybe.
But this week may finally see the conclusion of one ancient mystery: the location of LandladyLynn's septic tank.
My entire oeuvre of knowledge on the subject of septic tanks until last Tuesday was gleaned from a TV commercial in which a cheerful man in overalls implores you to use his patented drain potion, or else (cut to picture of very large bulldozer) your lawn might end up like this (cut to what looks like the battlefields of Somme).
For the similarly uninitiated, let me explain that in these ere parts, there are no civic sewage arrangements. Instead you have a nice tank buried in your garden, into which all your waste goes. The water rises to the top and flows out through trenches of sand (also buried in your garden). Then you hire a bunch of cooperative bacteria to live in the bottom of these tanks and munch up the rest. All you have to do is empty a few packets of yeast (and, if you're feeling nervous, some patented drain potion) down the loo every so often, get your septic tank pumped out at least once every five years, and et voila.
The only problem is, it turns out that LandladyLynn's septic tank has not been pumped out for as long as fifteen years, because noone - not even with the help of plans and blueprints and god knows what else - has ever been able to work out where it is buried. Over the years, a steady procession of gentlemen with and without overalls have wandered around poking the ground with sticks, but the location of the sewage grail has remained a mystery.
Today saw the latest septic tank desperado arrive, armed with a stick with a natty yellow plastic handle. I was, as always, torn between a desperate desire to learn more about the art of septic tank divination, and the sure knowledge that if I uttered a single word, all work would cease for at least forty minutes while the septic tank man remarked upon the fact that I don't sound like I'm from round here. So I settled for mutely observing proceedings from a balcony.
It was too much to hope for that the man would come up with anything today - this fifteen year old drama would never be solved so easily. But he poked around, and in the absence of any better ideas and in the best tradition of the US Army Engineer Corps, announced he would be back tomorrow with a bulldozer to dig up the drive.
* * *
Yesterday afternoon saw the arrival of LandladyLynn back from upstate New York, where she was emptying the contents of her late mother's house. Her Landrover was full of vintage treasures, including gloves, pocketbooks and heaps of fur accessories from the forties and fifties. Most of them were old mink Jackie O pillbox hats, capes and cuffs, but there was one item in particular that shocked even me (and I'm a known fur fan) . It was not one but two entire fox pelts tied together as a scarf - complete with heads, tails and worst of all, paws with claws still attached. There was one horrible moment when, coming back into the hallway, I caught sight of four paws sticking limply out at peculiar angles from under a blanket and I almost screamed - I thought it was the cat. And so, it seems, did the cat himself, who vanished into the upstairs linen cupboard and remained there for the rest of the day. A little bit too close to home, maybe.
posted by alranson | 8:24 PM
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