For the majority of the people I know, this title is the rule; which holds such irony, because for the majority of the people I don’t know, it is exactly the exception.
Exactly four weeks ago, Oklahoma once again dealt its residence the hand for which it is known: extreme weather. With anticipated highs not escaping the teens, we were instructed to combat this climate criminal by opening cabinets, dripping faucets and circulating heaters. As a responsible new homeowner and overachieving seasoned student, I followed the assignment to the T. Well, apparently T’s won’t earn you A’s because when I woke up the next morning, my faucets were froze. So I did what the majority of the people I don’t know would do; turn off the City’s water and fetch my own. I knew eventually the temperatures would graduate to above freezing and those pipes in the crawl space would thaw. The end of the weekend brought rising temperatures and heightened anxiety as I anticipated my worst fear. After unscrewing the crawl space entrance and turning on the City’s water, it was more than apparent that this dangerously low temperature thief had done its damage, and although in my eyes, it was the weather that deserved punishment, in the end it was the poor pipes that got busted. At this point, I did what the majority of the people I do know would do; started a claim with my insurance company and scheduled a professional plumber for the next “working” day. But the use of resources in a developing country kept cycling through my mind, so when a friend offered himself and his roommate to identify the exact source of the problem plumbing, to be looked at a couple of days later, I thought, what’s a few more days with the water off?
The good news was, they figured out what was actually wrong. The bad news was, it probably couldn’t be more complicated. Home Sweet Homeownership? Three months in and I already needed to replace the main underground pipe that ran from under the crawl space to the water meter at the street. Which was precisely when my little cottage took on a Goldilocks’-like fable of its own. The first plumber came all the way out, quickly surveyed the exterior perimeter of the house, peeked an eye in the crawl space and quoted me $200 or so. That just seemed a little too small and a little too good to be true. Which is when I thought to call a reliable and friendly source, to whom I am very grateful. He gave me a much better picture of what actually needed to be replaced, and how, and approximately how much, and recommended another plumber. This wasn’t going to be a quick, cheap fix, because the line was completely rusted and corroded, and all underground. A new pipe was going to have to be placed from the water meter, going underground, under the house, and up through the crawl space to the kitchen sink, from where the pipes shoot off to the rest of the house. A 20 inch trench had to be dug from the meter to the house (about 40 feet), then a tiny tunnel under the house, where it could meet under the crawl space. With this information, at least I knew what I was getting into.
After explaining all I knew to the second plumber, it finally convinced him to take a look for himself. The next day, he quoted me a price 10x as the first guy! I asked him to provide a line item statement while I called a third plumber. Turns out plumbers charge anywhere from $75-150 per hour, per worker. They have to rent $300 equipment to dig in your yard and then spend 2 or more hours digging the trench, and then however many hours it takes to replace the meter and the pipes and connect them all under the crawl space, plus the cost of the parts. It could be a 10 hour job, plumber #2 told me.
By the time I called plumber #3, I had been without running water for almost two weeks. I had a pretty good system down, which made me think very long and hard about what it meant to be connected to the City’s line in a developed country. In The United States America, you are NOT going to go without potable water, by any means. But I felt more vulnerable and more reliant on others than I ever did the entire two-plus years spent in Gambia. I relished those bucket baths under the stars, where washing my hair wasn’t a chore, but a renewing sense of self. Now, even though I resorted back to my gas-heated water bathing techniques, washed my dishes over a basin, and used that “gray water” to fill the toilet tank, I couldn’t bring myself to pass up the offer of friends to take a hot, running water shower every couple of days, which brought back the exact feeling of a renewed sense of self.
There was something about the third plumber’s sense of urgency and compassion about getting that water up and running again, that felt “just right”. He didn’t look at me with crazy eyes when I told him I’d done this before, voluntarily. When he was confused about exactly what was going on under the house, he pulled out his little disposable white suit and crawled right into the dirt. When I told him my plan to get a bunch of friends together and dig the trench, he didn’t hop right back into his truck and drive away. Instead, he gave me the exact dimensions of the trench, told me I had some pretty good friends, and to call him when we decided to give up. Ha! That’s a challenge if I ever heard one!
So, on the second Sunday of washing one hand at a time, three friends, to whom I will forever be indebted and ever grateful, put in hour after hour of muscle power and elbow grease, while I stood there and watched, just like I learned in Gambia. Yeah right! (I did offer food to everyone, though). I’m ready to sign up for some activity that involves demolishing something, because when I picked up that ax thing and made contact with the earth, something more than dirt stirred up. And after the nearly two foot ditch was dug, we spent another hour or so under the house, on elbows, digging a tiny tunnel under the concrete blocks, at which one point I asked my friend under the house with me, “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you break out of this joint?” His answer? “Kiss my wife!” (She was on the outside, digging, in). Just as frustration was starting to set in, we finally saw the light of day and the challenge of victory was ours!!
I was so proud of our efforts, I immediately called plumber #3 and told him I was more than ready to get this water! However, I was once again let down when he said that the earliest they’d be able to get to it was the FOLLOWING Tuesday! This was just getting ridiculous. But not as ridiculous as the impending ice storm-turned snow blizzard that would freeze everything in the metro area for 5 days, with its 5 inches of accumulation. It certainly was beautiful, though, but as I watched those bowing branches dip lower over the electric lines as the ice kept coating, I was once again imagining the worst: one more utility compromised. Thankfully, that didn’t happen.
One month later, what finally did happen was that the snow melted enough for two workers to come out and connect new pipes, all in about 3 hours, resulting in bill nearly ¼ of the quote of plumber #2. But because the water had been off for so long, debris prevented the faucets from working properly, until an on-call plumber came out and fixed that too. After which, I crawled up into the attic this time, turned the water heater dial a little more to the right, and took a nice, long, hot bath. Whatever! I took a shower! And washed my hair! On a Friday night, woo hoo!
While we’re on the topic of things “running”, I have something to share. I just finished this book called Born to Run, about the Tarahumara tribe in Mexico and their ultra-running capabilities. It was very interesting and inspiring to this runner who aspires to complete at least one marathon at some point. At the same time, I found out that a story I wrote about being an American, female runner, in The Gambia, is going to be published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Runners. This is their first addition and my story will be one of the 2% included in America’s favorite bathroom reading book. Look for it in July!
