Why I’m Not a Plumber
I was cleaning house at a furious pace that Saturday morning, fueled by conflicting emotions. Anger at abuse and betrayal by my husband collided with the giddiness of my independence and freedom in the week or so since his arrest. I was determined to be productive, hoping to keep at bay the sheer panic that crept in when I thought of the task of raising my two young daughters alone.
As I filled the washer with clothes for load number two, I put in the detergent, then pushed the knob. Nothing happened. I tried again. There was no sound of running water. The interruption of my plans brought my barely-suppressed anger to the surface. After checking the hoses on the washer I went to the sink and turned on the faucet. There was no water there either. Maybe the new pump on the well was the problem. The man who answered the phone at the well-service company spoke kindly and cautiously. News of my husband’s arrest was no secret in this small town. I was used to people being uncomfortable around me. He agreed to send someone out, and promised to call soon.
I waited, frustrated that my housekeeping attempts were thwarted by no water. When the phone rang, I hoped for an easy fix.
“Mrs. Ruddell?”
“Yes.”
“The pump on your well is working fine. In fact it is pumping like crazy.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you have a leak.”
“How do I know where to look?”
“I’d start with the barn, where your horses are.”
My emotions were not conflicted anymore. Anger was definitely winning the battle. Now I could add a water leak to the list of my woes. I loaded the girls in the van, and drove to the back of our place to the well house. I turned off the main water switch. I drove to the barn, where the three horses waited. I wasn’t fond of these animals. My husband had bought them despite the fact that neither of us had any experience or knowledge about taking care of horses. Now he was in jail. I was stuck with three “pets” who did nothing but eat expensive hay, and as I was soon to discover, break hydrants and cause water leaks.
I drove back to the house. I called the sheriff’s office in our little town and was able to speak to my incarcerated husband. I angrily informed him of the horse-caused water leak. I asked him how in the world I was supposed to fix it. He suggested I call a man who had done some odd jobs around our place to cut and cap the line. It only went to that hydrant, so capping it would solve the problem.
Unable to locate the would-be-repair man, and being informed by the plumber that, “I might be able to make it today–but it might be Monday,” I was faced with a dilemma. There was no water, and there would be no help from the odd-job helper, the plumber, or my incarcerated husband.
I had two little girls to take care of. I knew I could not go all weekend without running water. An idea crossed my racing mind.
I have helped my husband with water lines before. I know how to cut and cap that line. He told me what size cap to get, I know where the hacksaw is. I can do this!
I took the girls to our trusted baby-sitter, who unsuccessfully tried to hide her lack of faith in my
plumbing ability. I changed into old clothes and gathered my supplies. I went to the hardware store and bought the cap for the water line, and PVC glue. I located the hacksaw and the shovel to dig up the water line. I parked my van and drove my husband’s shiny new pickup back to the barn. I waded through almost knee-deep mud to the broken hydrant. I began to shovel the heavy, water-logged mud away from the pipe. As I shoveled, my anger boiled.
I shouldn’t be out here shoveling mud. My husband should be out here taking care of this mess. He’s the one who bought these stupid horses anyway. Who leaves a halter on a horse? Didn’t he know it would get caught on the hydrant? Now look at this mess he’s caused!”
Between my anger and the weight of the mud, the shovel handle broke. I tromped through the barn, retrieving another shovel. Soon I had uncovered the water line. I looked around for something to bail the water out of the hole so I could get to the line. I was way too muddy to go into the house. On the ground nearby was a discarded paper cup. I bent over the hole, dipping the water out one cup at a time. Before long my back was hurting. My solution? I laid down on my belly in that mud, and continued to bail the water out of the hole.
I was so focused on my task, and occupied by my angry thoughts, I hadn’t noticed the horses. They had wandered under the overhang, near where I was lying on the ground, in the mud, dipping water from the hole with a paper cup, all while ranting and raving about how mistreated I had been and how unfair this was and what I wished would happen to my husband.
I was yanked back to reality by a sudden lick on my bare back. I guess my shirt had crept up while I was bailing water. That horse thought my back would taste good I suppose.
The string of words that expressed my surprise at being horse-licked must have scared them away. I didn’t see them again for a while. Having finally gotten enough water out of the hole to see the water line, I turned my attention to the hacksaw. The water line was easy to cut. I thought, “The hard part is over, and I survived being licked by the horse. I’ve almost got this!”
I cleaned off the cut water line. I carefully brushed the end of the line with PVC glue, as I had seen my husband do several times. I got the cap, went to put it on the newly cut pipe, and …it…didn’t….fit!
I practiced my vocabulary like I had done with the horse lick. Let’s just say I was not pleased with my husband’s inability to remember what size water line he had put in the barn.
Now I had a real dilemma. It was now Saturday afternoon. The only places open in our little town were the grocery store and the convenience store. Not only was there no place to get the right size cap, I was covered in mud and horse saliva. I had no running water. Even if I had wanted to drive thirty miles to the nearest open hardware store, I would have been quite the spectacle.
As I sat on the ground contemplating my next move, a white pick-up truck pulled up near the barn. It was the plumber.
“What are you doing, Mrs. Ruddell?”
“I was fixing this stupid water line, but my cap doesn’t fit!”
I’ll give him credit, he refrained from laughing as he spoke, “I have a cap that will fit. Would you like me to finish the job or do you want to do it?”
“You can fix the darn thing. I’ll be on the porch. Just let me know when I can turn the water on.”
The plumber, with a smile on his face, walked to the back of his truck. He pulled out an empty, collapsed refrigerator box. He unfolded it, and laid it across the mud between his truck and the water line. He walked across, clean and dry, bent over, and glued the cap in place. He returned to where I was standing.
“That was easy, you did the hard part,” he said with a grin. He must have considered his amusement payment enough, because I never received a bill.