For about half an hour Saturday morning, my front yard almost qualified as a national park.
We had our very own geyser, in all its glory. We’re not sure how long it had been gushing. Husband and I are in the back of the house and would not have heard or discovered it at all until we rolled out of bed much later. For that, I must be grateful for my daughter’s three cats. (This is a phrase I never thought I would speak.)
They demand to be fed between 4 and 5 a.m. and woke up the son-in-law, who thought monsoon season had arrived, as water crashed against the front windows. My daughter assured him it wasn’t rain and went to investigate, then roused the closest parent — me.
It’s still quite dark at 4 a.m. I knew we had a water shut-off valve and I knew where it used to be, but the area was now very overgrown. Flashlight in mouth, and shovel in hand, I began the search and got lucky. Except I could see no turn-off handle and was forced to waken the husband. In true hero fashion, he grabbed the right tools and triumphantly wrestled with the old, stiff valve. I may never nag this man again.
The search began for a weekend plumber, and between it being Saturday and business shutdowns, many were incommunicado — even the ones that claimed 24/7 service. I finally found one and by 4 p.m., we could wash our hands again. It was a long, dry day.
The upside was also, oddly, that it was a Saturday. Hence, I didn’t have to wash my face, comb my hair, go anywhere or do dishes for the balance of the day. I just slapped on a scarf, binged Netflix and wrote a check.
As boring as this quarantine may sometimes be, this episode in the joys of home ownership is all the excitement I will require for some time.
Jean Gillette is a freelance writer who rather wishes it had been the monsoon. Contact her at [email protected].