First, the toilet wouldn’t stop running. Turns out the tank’s valve chain kept snagging on itself. Plus, the little fill-hose in there had directed itself up to squirt the lid’s edge. That water had then trickled down to the floor. I sorted it all out, but then the old white towel rag I was using to wipe my hands slipped quietly out of my pants pocket into the bowl. I flushed experimentally while peering into the tank- overflow! I snatched the darn thing out, but not before the floor got even wetter. What a way to begin the day!
The garden, though, cheered me up. I deadheaded happily, reaching and stretching to snare dead blossoms. Then, trotting past the big fountain and pool, I pulled up suddenly. Whoa! The water level was too low! I unwound the hose and dragged it over. Three inches higher ought to do it. The fountain pump would certainly be happier.
You know what will happen, don’t you?
I’m not going to flood the lawn again! No way! Those other times were flukes…
Uh-huh.
I popped the hose into the pool, and turned it on.
Stay close, old girl; your record stinks!
True, but I won’t stand by for ages to watch the pool fill. How incredibly boring! Nope, I’ll deadhead nearby and keep a close eye on the water level…
Right.
Much later I re-entered the garden from the alley after cleaning behind the Lamb’s Ears and thumping Japanese beetles. I felt smug. Those jobs had really needed doing. My shoes squished through spongy grass. Wha…? The ground two feet away from the pool was drowned. Frantic worms squirmed atop the drenched earth. OH, NO!! Lost in ear-plucking and beetle-banging I’d done the unthinkable- again! Horrified, I practically fell over myself rushing to shut off the hose.
For ages I did penance, lugging bucket after heavy bucket of overflow water into the alley. Fifteen trips later my arms ached, and my shirt dripped sloshing water and yucky pool bottom gunk. I was certainly paying for another senior moment. Clearly I’d have to chain myself to the bench next time, and watch!
Idiot!
Finally the water level dropped to just below the pool rim. I could stop bailing. It was just eight o’clock in the morning, and already I’d experienced two watery messes. What else could possibly happen?
Ah, life is never dull, here. Mid-morning, chatting with visitors about dogwood trees, I gazed up at the sky as we walked toward the folly. A private plane was buzzing by- an unusual sight these days. Civil aviation was, for all practical purposes, dead, as fuel costs were astronomical.
Eyes high, thinking about flying, I forgot where I was in space- and walked right into the pool. Right IN. There I stood, mouth hanging open, too shocked to move. My drowned tennis shoes gurgled; drenched socks drooped; eight inches of water lapped my jeaned calves.
Never had this happened. Never.
The visitors gaped, sputtered, and then, overcome with the absurdity of the situation, began to laugh, and couldn’t stop. I turned redder than a fire truck on a hot date and slowly waded out, dumb with embarrassment. Sometimes there is simply nothing reasonable to say. Only a sheepish grin and a weak shrug are possible.
I simply carried on. All day long my shoes (which emitted pathetic little squeaks and squirts with every step) and soaked jeans attracted twigs, leaves, flower petals, bugs, bits of grass and muddy earth. Blank-faced, I’d frequently look down on my organically cluttered lower parts, and sigh. Served me right.
The waterlogged day ended in spectacular fashion. I sat in the kitchen just after six o’clock, glumly sipping tea and trying not to think about possessing a brain so dense that light bends around it- when the phone jingled.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mrs. Blair. This is the harbormaster’s office. I’m sorry to report that the river police have discovered your Rinker boat sunk at its moorings!”
Oh, boy! It was definitely down under. The police could find no obvious reason why this disaster had happened. Everything electrical, including the bilge pump, had packed up. Traverse Dockside Marine, responding promptly, emptied the poor thing with a gasoline-powered pump, then raised it, groaning, from the river. We heaved it onto the boat trailer and hauled it away for a proper shop investigation.Turns out a water hose had worked loose. Stealthily, overnight, river water had overwhelmed the boat.
Huh! ‘Hosed’ yet again! See what I mean about themes?
On the bright side (metaphysical piles of poop usually have ponies hiding in there somewhere), no family member had slept in the little cuddy cabin for fun last night, and-we have great insurance.
There was one other hugely comforting thought I embraced with a weak grin:
this time it wasn’t my fault.