12,003. RUDIMENTS, pt. 778

RUDIMENTS, pt. 778

(while the water's running)

Every once in a while there'd

be some problem  -  the roof

would suddenly leak, or the

spring water pump in the

basement would seize up; a

vacuum leak, whatever. I'd

have to stumble downstairs

and prime it  -  at first it

horrified me, thinking that

I needed to do that, and

then it became second nature,

even in the dead of night.

The slow progress of the

loss of pressure  -  which

could be tracked if I watched

the gauge, would get quicker

and quicker, and then once it

lost pressure, there'd be no

water until primed and again

brought up to the right number,

I think it like 45 psi, or one

of those numbers there, that

would give good faucet pressure.

It would also generate a horrid,

humming noise from in the

basement; which is how I

heard it each time, and tended

to it. Of course, until I got it

fixed; and we had two of them,

so I had to tend both. A real

pain, but cheap. Eventually I

fully replaced one, and the

other got much better with

new, rubber seals and all,

which I, surprisingly, did

myself. As far as water went,

it was good  -  fresh and cold,

from a hillside spring that was

rigged up by these pumps, a

holding tank, and a few pumps,

to take care of a regular household.

Except when my family came

up. All those kids with their 20

minute showers and bathrooms

and dishes and washing and all

that kitchen-water use, it would

run us down, deplete the reservoir.

Then there'd be no water for 6 or

so hours while the tank refilled

from the natural running of the

spring. Believe me, there wasn't

anything bucolic or anything else

about it. As a water system, it

stunk. Anyone seeking steady

regularity of the water supply

would have gone mad. It got

so eventually, that when I was

told my parents wanted to

come up, I'd go to the creamery

and they'd allow me about 10

milk cans, filled with their

water, for as much as I wanted;

so I just would keep refilling

by hand the holding tank, and

take back the empties and get

some more. They were nice

about it, and it worked all

around. My father hated it

all; he wanted a well-dug

but seemed to think that

would be free. I never got

that done  -  money again.

There might have been plenty

of water around, but you never

knew. If it didn't strike, they'd

just keep digging, and it was

each foot expensive after a

while. I know some guys who

said there wells were 800 or

1200 feet in. Not for me,

thanks. The problem with

my father's thinking always

had to do with his bull-headed

obstinacy about demanding 

things. From only his point

of view, of course. I could

never get it across to him that,

unless they were up here,

using up all that water, this

was NOT a normal problem.

Oftentimes, he was the cause

of his own frustration and

grief. And the other thing was,

he'd come up for a visit, and

in whatever amount of time it

was, 3 days, 5 days, just step

in and try to 'suburbanize'

my whole operation  -  as if

it was his, and as if it had to

look like some Avenel

bunghole property : trimmed,

cut, painted, neatened up, 

things moved about, and all

other evidences of any real

life removed into some sort

of fairy-land of cool clean

suburban asshole life. He

used to drive me plum crazy.

Ladders and riggings, of his

own devise, so he could go

up 14 miles high, to scrape

and paint the highest peaks,

all in the name of looks  -

fresh paint, no chipping. 

Those places hadn't seen 

a visitor since 1954, up

on those peaks, etc., and

the old, ancient wood, as

wood does, had dried and

hardened so it was no longer

at all soft or porous; more 

like stone or slate now, and 

weather- resistant on its 

own. And who the hell cared

anyway? Not me. Next he'd

be wanting the driveway and

rear-yard and barn areas paved

because they got muddy. Like

it was the damned Avenel

First-Aid squad or something.

Heck, mud and country went

together like, well like, hops

and beer, or man and woman.

Something; but try telling Dad.

-

I never got too excited about

anything, figuring that whatever

it was that would occur, I had

it coming. It was my situation,

after all  -  no one had pushed

me (us) into it. I had willingly

checked the box, twice now,

marked 'stranger in a strange

land.' My intentions were to

remain strong and forward

looking, do things in some sort

of right sequence, keep one foot

in front of the other, and stay

strong. The roof only leaked

once; I tarred that up OK, and

that was that. The water deal

I learned to handle. Two other

problems with it, I guess I should

mention, were that  -  as a spring  -

it was seasonal. It would happen

that, by the long, hollow days of

mid-August, if dry and parched,

the spring ran itself down to a

mere trickle. It never died, but

it trickled. And, also, in that

holding tank, (I seldom

inspected it except for water

level, with a quick look-see),

we'd get newts, frogs, and

even  thin water-snakes

scurrying around. The flow

pipes were filtered at the ends,

but still....I always had the

madcap image, as in some

childhood memory of a Farmer

Brown cartoon or something,

of frogs and things coming

out of the faucet, slithering

into the sink, sliding all over

the floor, and making just horrid

scenes. It was more nightmare

than it was cartoon, but that's

the way the alien brain works.

And all this was, at first, surely

alien to me.

-

The other thing was, in the

situation I'd gotten myself to,

I couldn't much care about

'progress' or advancement. I

was there by choice, fleeing 

to an escape, hiding out for 

a while, laying low, in the 

parlance of the jackal. Each

time I signed my name for

something, I had to worry.

'Where's the bank go with

this info?' What about motor

vehicles and my info for

getting new car-tags (in

Pennsylvania they call 

them 'tags' not license 

plates). Does someone

review all this crap? This

was way before computers,

in fact, in 1974, when the

guy in Elmira at Marine

Midland Bank first reviewed

my money situation, he

introduced me to credit 

cards. They were brand 

new at the time, and I got 

a very early, common-man's

version of a Marine Midland

MasterCharge. (They didn't

start using Mastercard until

re-named some years later. It 

was always 'MasterCharge').
-
The point was, so much to see
and experience, but none of it
vicariously  -  rather, I had to
watch and learn for what was
coming, and take from each of
those experiences anything new
and vital that would keep me
going within the new situation.
Some times I just took it on
the chin; other times I came
out smelling like a rose (but I
had to keep Dad from cutting
it back).