The Plumbing Story

by Donna Schoenkopf

I am all set to have a fabulous day and night in Oklahoma City.

First I will go to Doris’ house. She has a Christmas Tree Extravaganza, I’m told. This year she will have thirty-four Christmas trees for your viewing pleasure, all decorated with different themes, in every nook and cranny of her house. I cannot wait!

Then I will zip over to Larry’s where he and Nancy and I will drive together to a wine tasting. Nice.

Then dinner at an Indian Buffet Restaurant. My California taste buds are a-quiver.

Then finally a delightful evening of song by the Sisters of Swing.

I haven’t had this much fun, packed into one day, in years.

I’ve already washed my hair under the outdoor shower, even though it was only 42 degrees this morning. (If you quickly get your clothes off and jump under the hot water, there is no pain. Lots of steam in the air. Feels absolutely exhilarating. And when you get out from under that glorious hot water and make a run for the back door, you’re not even cold.)

So I play around on the computer, waiting for the time to get dressed in my fancy duds, which includes a gold wreath for the crown of my head. It’s made out of the stuff you wind on bannisters or encircle your tree with, all fluffy and sparkly. (I came up with the idea of the sparkly head wreath years ago when I designed the costumes for my third graders for our Mele Kalikimaka hula number of our Winter Holiday Program. It was a show stopper, let me tell you.)

Yes. I am excited.

But first a pit stop at the toilet.

Flush.

Uh oh.

The toilet doesn’t flush. Instead, it rises, not so slowly, to the very brim. And stops.

Whew.

I think about my plunger. I know I brought my plunger with me when I moved to Oklahoma, but my faulty memory seems to vaguely recall that I’ve already tried to find it once, to no avail.

I begin my search. Nope. Not in the back closet. Not under the kitchen sink. Not anywhere in the bathroom.

Maybe it’s out in the shed.

Awwwww, crap. It’s not there either.

I’ll have to drive into town to the hardware store to buy one.

That’ll make me close to being late for Doris’. But I’ll hurry.

Off I go. The friendly guy there helps me out, I jump back into my car and speed home. I sink the plunger firmly into the toilet and plunge.

It goes down! Hooray!

And then I hear a sound over my right shoulder and turn to look.

Everything (and I mean everything) has come up in the indoor shower.

Awwwwww crap!

I stand there in disbelief.

Okay, now what?

My brain sorts through my options. Neighbor Jim. Orval. Artie the Plumber.

I dial Artie’s number. His wife answers and, no, sorry he’s not home, but here’s his cell phone number.

No answer on that line.

I call Neighbor Jim. No answer.

I call Orval. Shirley answers. Yes, Orval’s coming in the door and she puts him on and I ask him if he knows anything about plumbing and yes, he does, and he’ll be right over.

By this time I know that I can never, in a million years, get to my fine night out, so I call Larry, who doesn’t answer, and finally reach Nancy and beg off.

Back to business.

Orval arrives with his plunger and screwdrivers and all. We decide we’ll take off the plate in the floor of the shower and stick a hose down it and flush it but we can’t see the plate over the drain very well because of the nasty water in the shower. I get him my rubber gloves so he can feel around for the screws but we still can’t get the plate off so I get some plastic bowls from the kitchen (which I will throw away after the job is done) for bailing purposes. I can’t use my five gallon bucket because it is full of dry cement. (Don’t ask.)

We start bailing water.

Many, many trips later we discover the plate is grouted to the floor of the shower.

So we go outside to look for the clean-out trap thingy. I can’t remember where it is. It doesn’t seem to be anywhere. I look up at the eaves and there are two vents up there. I ask Orval if it would work if we stuck the hose down one of the vents. He said, not too enthusiastically, that it might work.

I run over to the outdoor pump and bring the hose over<Orval climbs the ladder and sticks the hose in the vent and I turn on the water.

So far, so good.

I run into the bathroom to see what’s happening.

The experiment has failed. Now the shower is getting close to being filled. With somewhat diluted, but nonetheless nasty, water.

Awwww crap.

We agree this is not working.

I tell Orval I’ll run back to the hardware store to buy a snake. He tells me he has to tend to his calf, which has just been born to his crippled heifer. (Awwwwww.) He has to put some iodine on its navel. We’ll meet back at my house after we both do what we must do.

I race to the hardware store. The friendly guy is working on an electronic device of some sort on the counter. It’s some sort of exotic sound system he bought for $20 and only needs some cleaning and oiling and then it’ll be good as new. It’s his hobby, he says. I ask about a snake. No, he doesn’t have a snake but he does have some of this stuff called Liquid Fire he has used himself and swears by. Okay, I’ll buy it. We go to the register.

 And as I stick my hand into my purse, I realize I don’t have my wallet.

Awwww crap!

So I race home just in time to see Orval coming down his driveway from iodining his calf’s navel and I tell him what’s happening with my wallet and the snake and the Liquid Fire and how it will take care of everything and not to worry, I’ve got it handled, and he kinda nods a doubting nod, but whatever, his nod says, it’s my call. He tells me he’s going to get his tools at my house and go back home.

Okey doke.

I go get the Liquid Fire and go home and pour it in. Nothing. Nothing at all.

The phone rings. It’s Artie the Plumber and he’s just at Tucker Road, not a mile away and do I want him to come out.

Yes, I do.

So he arrives in five minutes and he takes a look, puts his fingertips on the wall next to the shower drain, spreads his arms until his other fingertips reach the toilet and says it’s about six feet from shower drain to toilet.

We go outside. He measures off the distance on the outside of the wall with his arms outspread again.

He says the clean-out drain thingy should be right about here.

But all we see is dirt. So he says he needs a shovel and I grab mine and hand it to him and he starts digging and messing around a little and sure enough! We uncover the clean-out drain which has somehow become buried under a bunch of gravel I had painstakingly put all around the perimeter of my house for my version of a french drain.

Ooops.

But, hooray!

He unscrews the cap and water pours out.

This tells him that the blockage is further down the line to the septic tank. I ask him whether I should buy a snake to clear out the line. He says no, that a snake that would really do the trick costs thousands of dollars and that’s why the roto rooter man must be called.

He gives me the names of three good companies to call for Monday because nobody is gonna come this weekend. He says I can use my sink and shower because the water will just pour out of the uncovered clean-out drain.

Well, now. Things are getting better.

And to end on a really happy note, he tells me the story of his grandson, a proud member of the Spikes baseball team.

His name is Benjamin Payne and he’s eight years old. He’s been playing baseball for three years and this year his team has won the State championship.

The team is so good that it makes double plays. Double plays by eight year olds! And with a 250 foot field manages to occasionally hit the ball out of the park or, more often, up against the bottom of the fence.

And this team has won 49 out of their last 55 games!

And they’re EIGHT!

Dang.

Now that is a hot team.

Artie glows with pride and excitement as he recounts the play-by-play drama of the year. He remembers his sons playing ball. They made the state championships, too.

I ask him if he played ball. He says not so much. His family moved a lot because of his dad’s work. He went to nineteen different elementary schools. But he did have three years at Shawnee High School and graduated there.

And hasn’t moved since.

Artie is a happy man. Helps wherever he can. Has a good wife and a good life.

I walk him out to his truck and say good-bye.

And now, even though I have missed a real swell time in the city, I feel all happy and serene.

I think about the good men out here in the country. I think about how they help as soon as they’re asked, with good humor and good will. I think about how they are modern day heroes. I think about being alone out here, and what would happen if I really needed assistance, and I realize that I am not alone.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is one of the reasons I love living here and how I manage to get through the hard times.

Thank you, Orval. And thank you, Artie. And thank you Neighbor Jim for times past. You really have all come to my rescue when times were complicated.

I appreciate you.

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