The upshot? Crisis averted.
I'm out in the young orchard, feeling pretty smug. The sun's out and that means that if I stand just so, in its full brightness, I don't even have to use the mosquito zapper. I can water the tomatoes, the grapes, the cucumbers and peas, the corn and, most importantly, the baby fruit trees in peace.
I think about the beauty of the day -- of how good summer always is, even in all its imperfections (heat or rain, bugs, etc etc). Minutes earlier, Ed and I had taken a quick bike ride and even though I usually wince at views of endless fields of corn and soy, this time, it all looks so rich and bounteous:
And, too, I'm seeing wheat in these parts. The choice crop of my childhood years in Poland.
(And let's give another nod to the tiger lilies, growing in the wild, around roadside mailboxes...)
And now, with all this behind me, I'm here, watering the newly planted orchard... until I feel the water from the hose slow down to a mere trickle.
Damn. Is someone taking a shower? (That's my immediate reaction. As if taking a shower would bring this stream to a halt.)
At the farmhouse, Ed frowns when I tell him the hose has ceased to spit out water. He goes down to the basement to inspect the water pump and I follow, as if I could help, give advice, pass the proper tool.
As you'll know from the first sentence of the post, eventually, he finds the failure, goes to Farm & Fleet just before they close and buys the needed part and makes the proper adjustments. But it never seems so straightforward at the time. I had visions of a weekend, nay, a week without water. Given the closeness of the city, that's not a total tragedy, but it is a miserable inconvenience. Especially when you have houseguests for the weekend.
My friends take us out to dinner and that surely is a good distraction from the issues at home.
I use the restaurant's bathroom, wondering when we'd next have a functional toilet back home.
Not so far off. As I retire for the day, the water is back on, the toilets are flushing, the farmette is restored to its wonderful functional self.
You appreciate water especially on days that you almost have to go without it.
I'm out in the young orchard, feeling pretty smug. The sun's out and that means that if I stand just so, in its full brightness, I don't even have to use the mosquito zapper. I can water the tomatoes, the grapes, the cucumbers and peas, the corn and, most importantly, the baby fruit trees in peace.
I think about the beauty of the day -- of how good summer always is, even in all its imperfections (heat or rain, bugs, etc etc). Minutes earlier, Ed and I had taken a quick bike ride and even though I usually wince at views of endless fields of corn and soy, this time, it all looks so rich and bounteous:
And, too, I'm seeing wheat in these parts. The choice crop of my childhood years in Poland.
(And let's give another nod to the tiger lilies, growing in the wild, around roadside mailboxes...)
And now, with all this behind me, I'm here, watering the newly planted orchard... until I feel the water from the hose slow down to a mere trickle.
Damn. Is someone taking a shower? (That's my immediate reaction. As if taking a shower would bring this stream to a halt.)
At the farmhouse, Ed frowns when I tell him the hose has ceased to spit out water. He goes down to the basement to inspect the water pump and I follow, as if I could help, give advice, pass the proper tool.
As you'll know from the first sentence of the post, eventually, he finds the failure, goes to Farm & Fleet just before they close and buys the needed part and makes the proper adjustments. But it never seems so straightforward at the time. I had visions of a weekend, nay, a week without water. Given the closeness of the city, that's not a total tragedy, but it is a miserable inconvenience. Especially when you have houseguests for the weekend.
My friends take us out to dinner and that surely is a good distraction from the issues at home.
I use the restaurant's bathroom, wondering when we'd next have a functional toilet back home.
Not so far off. As I retire for the day, the water is back on, the toilets are flushing, the farmette is restored to its wonderful functional self.
You appreciate water especially on days that you almost have to go without it.
Ed is amazing. And your gardens are so beautiful...I feel like I'm in Monet's garden without traveling to France.
ReplyDeletewhich begs my story:
ReplyDeletethe day before we moved into our home in 1986, winter, 4 feet of snow outside - sub-zero temperatures - our water pipe froze up. For almost 3 months we had no running water here. What a housewarming present. Pure hell for Paul - having to hook a city hose to our neighbors for any water and then after 5 mins. even that would freeze up. We had to wait for the spring thaw to get water running again. An experience I will never forget and never want to relive.