Richard Scarry, illus. from “Busytown”
Wednesday
My last two days have been mired in a plumbing morass, during which time I have bonded with my plumber and his family. I found a poem by one Tony Gruenewald that gets at some of what I’ve been feeling.
Here’s our situation. My mother has been taking her water from the lake by which she resides for the past 40 years, but three weeks ago we started noting sand in water, signaled by the washing machine breaking down. Fortunately for us, my parents had arranged to have access to city water several years ago should they ever need a plan B. But plan B still meant running pipe through 500 feet of a heavily wooded lot and gravel driveway. It also meant locating unmarked water pipes in the guest house.
In the meantime, we have been living without running water for two weeks. We tote potable water from the parish hall and water for flushing toilets from the lake. We shower at the college’s gym.
I won’t go through all the twists and turns that we’ve undergone, other than to note that the plumber and I spent three hours searching for the guest house pipes, hacking our way through the gravel in our carport. The backhoe operator showed up late both days, which added tension as major rainstorms are expected. And then…
Then, after connecting the pipes to the city water and turning the spigot, we noticed water pouring out of our our second story overhang. The lake water, we discovered, has corroded the couplings linking the pipes to the faucets—at least in that one instance but very likely in others—so we’re still without water. Pray for us.
At least we have a wonderful plumber, who has put his other customers on hold to save us. His wife has long been a friend of my 93-year-old mother, and we feel we’ve been adopted by them. Small towns sometimes bring out the best in people.
I have experienced both the despair and the ecstasy described in the poem. Unlike the speaker, however, I was wise enough not to tackle the project by myself.
A Poem for Plumbers
By Tony Gruenewald
I am impotent
lost in the labyrinth
of plumbing that plagues
my existence. Pipe wrenches,
washers, teflon tape,
all rendered useless,
their inventions voided
by my uncouth hands.
For the god of domesticated
water mocks me or at best
does not consider my
petitions and prayers: valves forever
frozen open or shut, whichever
is least desirable, threads eternally
crossed or stripped, faucet leaks
reverberating like 3 a.m. thunder.
Ecstasy Is:
the number of an honest
plumber; one whose sympathetic
touch can sooth the savage
sweat of my sickly
pipes and spigots
and whose smile
won’t seem patronizing
after reviewing the results
of my humiliating attempts
to perform an act
of plumbing.
And then there’s this prose poem by James Tate. It captures the heightened tensions surrounding plumbing issues, even though our own plumber seems perfectly competent:
The Plumber
When the plumber arrived to fix the water
heater he eyed me with considerable suspicion. I
told him how grateful I was that he had come
and he actually growled at me. I asked him
if I could get him something to drink and he said,
“I don’t want your stinking water.” I pointed
him to the basement door and he spat at me
saying, “What, do you think I’m an idiot?” Then
I heard pounding and cursing from the basement
for the next forty-five minutes. I considered
calling the police, but knew they wouldn’t
believe me. I considered getting in my car and
just getting the hell out of there. As he came
up the steps I could hear him whimpering, actual-
ly sobbing. He opened the door and threw his
arms around me. “I can’t fix it!” he said. “I’m
a terrible plumber!” I held him in my arms and
we rocked back and forth with me gently patting
him on the back. A little while after he was
able to leave, his wife called to ask if he was
alright. I said that he was just fine and she
thanked me very sweetly.
