...and this last week or so has not been too great.
First off, Celia (goddess-like wife) has been in considerable worry, as her mom's been in the hospital, first for back surgery and now, in rehab hospital.
Then, in the midst of that, we found out Aunt Jane (Celia's dad's sister, and his last immediate living relative, and one of the most delightfully sweet people I have ever known) had cancer, fully-involved.
So when Celia made her trip to go pep-up her mom last week, she and other family members also went to visit with Aunt Jane, sing with her, tell stories with her and tell her it was OK to go on home to be with Uncle Bob. She was fully-lucid, very weak, and ready for the journey.
So we found out Thursday that Aunt Jane had quietly gone on across, and that was not easy. God go with her.
Thursday evening, I got the call that my mom (whose insistence on smoking throughout her entire adult life has had the predictable consequences) was in the ER, severe abdominal pain. I was there, hung out until about 1:30 a.m., when CT showed nothing severe and she went home (something was prescribed for the symptoms, and I am glad I was not around for the denoument, and enough about that).
So it was not without considerable anticipation that we hit the road Friday evening to drive down to our little log cabin just outside Fredericksburg, in the central Texas hill country, for a long weekend of relaxation (and a diversion to Austin for Tomster and me to watch the 'Horns play). We drove in a borrowed Tahoe, so we could bring a small sleeper sofa down there ("Won't it fit in the A36?" she asked imploringly; "Not in one piece," says I).
Now I am prone to occasional bad thoughts ("ideation," I think the psychs call it...), and had had a couple of visions of the log bauble (so called because its purchase, for Celia, substituted for jewels...) sitting reduced to a pile of cinders. So it was reassuring when, at about 11:30 p.m., we came around the bend and saw the place looking just like we left it- all in one, unburned, piece. So silly to think these things.
The plan: unload the necessities, hustle Tomster off to bed, and sit on the back porch with a couple of frosty ones, watching the deer strolling by for their midnight snack.
Then I opened the door.
I guess the first thing I noticed was a loud hissing sound, and when I reached in to flip on the light, I saw water streaming down the wall to my left, and running down the wooden staircase.
And dripping from between the boards which form the ceiling of the first floor.
And standing, an inch and more deep, on the floor.
I'll admit, I was so stunned, I was nearly paralyzed, could not believe I was not dreaming a nightmare. No swear words at all, but I did invoke Our Savior's name about fifty times in succession.
Up the stairs (Careful! Very slippery there on the bare wood), and into the upstairs bathroom from which both the hissing noise and the watery welcome issued. A quick reach under the sink, a twist of the plastic fitting on the faucet's cold-water connection, and the flow was stopped (actually, almost stopped, about which more later).
Back downstairs to see what we could do to contain the damage, which was all done anyway (the water had clearly been running unchecked for days).
Pictures on the wall all ruined (including a really cool print of the Cadillac Ranch at night); hallway ceiling in sloppy mess on the floor, water standing 3" deep in the utility closet (where stands the electric water heater, arggh, and in which is found the breaker box, dripping with running water)...
...downstairs bathroom full of water and broken glass on the floor, where vanity mirror fasteners had pulled out of near-liquid drywall.
Downstairs bedroom soaked, mattress all wet, ceiling fan waterlogged (still ran, but wet blades out of balance and the pull-chain switch no longer... switches).
Miscellaneous furniture all wet. Hardwood floors up and down understandably and severely cupped.
Celia's common sense snaps me from my useless muttering, as I try drilling holes in the plywood floor of the utility closet to drain the water (how many of those would it have taken?). "Why not use the wet/dry vac?" she asks; why not, indeed?
By 3:00 a.m., all standing water sorted out, all damaged goods either thrown away or set out to dry, and the AC unit (which is under the house) actually works (display on the t-stat, soaked, not showing anything, but I turned it way down with the push buttons, and the system started right up.
And into bed we fell (well, Tommy got the upstairs sofa, and Celia and I took what has been Tommy's bed upstairs, pulling rank, in deference to the waterlogged bed downstairs.
Next day, up early to run over to pick up the rent car from the good folks at Fredericksburg FBO; I had not felt comfortable leaving Celia at the house alone without wheels while Tommy and I ran off to Austin for the football game, an dthat was before we had a certifiable family disaster to deal with). I offered to blow off the game (still had to run to Austin, I had two tickets for friends I had to deliver), but Celia assured me she was OK, and a generous infusion of coffee and kolaches bolstered our resolve.
Tommy and I had fun at the game (if you can call a 56-7 shellacking of a game, but outgunned, University of North Texas team, a "game"), and we gladly demurred post-game socializing opportunities to head on back. Celia was alone with the aftermath, and besides, I was so tired, I think I saw a purple chicano Jesus on the way back!).
Back at the forty (OK, the two, if we're counting acres), Celia had things remarkably under control. Despite threatening skies much of the day, it had not rained, and the mattress and sundry rugs and papers had pretty much dried. Bed for Tommy, and off to downtown for a much-deserved supper out for Celia.
Next day, we headed over, tandem, to take the car back to the rental outfit. On the way, I listened to our favorite local station, a folksy sort of country/folk outfit called "Revolution Radio," and their Sunday-morning staple, "Sunday Drive," where they play an hour of Texas country gospel and devotional music, which sounds hokey and just isn't. I heard a very humbly-sung and stirring rendition of "The Old Rugged Cross" by an artist I cannot yet name (I'll find out). When we got to the airport, Celia was sorta weepy/happy, and I found out then that Aunt Jane had always loved that old hymn, had sung it when they were all together for the send-off. She said she was bawling when she heard it, but she knew Aunt Jane was saying, "Hi."
Hi back at ya.
So, later that day, Celia's sister, Alyson, bro-law Jeff and sweet 15-year-old niece, Carolyn, visited per plan; they had offered to defer the visit because of the leak, but life does go on, right? They could commiserate about the water, besides, as a couple of years ago, some teens had broken into their home in Houston and, after stealing some stuff, actually imitated the morons in "Home Alone" by stopping up drains and turning on faucets (imagine, having fictional idiots as role models...).
They came, we toured the house (that was quick!), and headed over to hang out at Luckenbach for a few hours (perhaps the best thing about our new cabin is its very close proximity to Luckenbach, perhaps the single coolest place I know), to listen to music and drink a few frosty ones under the trees.
As always, a great time there, we always meet someone we enjoy visiting with there, and their version of open-mike was great, some really good talents (amazes me how the band, after about ten seconds of a song they have never heard, pick up and accompany with keyboard, bass guitar and drums).
Then Tommy went missing; we were not terribly worried, because he always meest other kids there to play with, and it's sort of a feel-good community watch out for everyone kind of place anyway. Finally, we spotted him, sitting at the back of the stage, air-drumming.
That boy.
During a break, the drummer brought him over to the drum set for some pointers. It's just that kind of place.
Back home for brisket (Cooper's, Llano, pilots love it and they darned well should), baked beans, slaw, brownies and a darned good red Zinfandel. Topped-off with s'mores.
===
Finally figured out, the line from the cut-off to the sink faucet was stretched waaaaay too tight (36" line, needed probably 42"), strain just caused the fitting to split. Waiting to break for ten years, probably, but had to do it right when our first payment's due. Figures.
Back home today, driving through heavy rain (don't mind, we need it).
====
But the good stuff?
Tommy really stepped-up during the clean up, no complaints and lots of great help.
And Celia's sister, Candy, who had not spoken to her in six years or so, put all that aside (whatever "that" was) and called when she found out Aunt Jane was ill, and sorta admitted it might not be a bad thing to be a family again.
And I am blessed with good friends, who sometimes manage to call at just the right time to cheer me up (and you know who you are).
So I shared my too-long story with my friends. Y'all be safe.
/s/ Spike
First off, Celia (goddess-like wife) has been in considerable worry, as her mom's been in the hospital, first for back surgery and now, in rehab hospital.
Then, in the midst of that, we found out Aunt Jane (Celia's dad's sister, and his last immediate living relative, and one of the most delightfully sweet people I have ever known) had cancer, fully-involved.
So when Celia made her trip to go pep-up her mom last week, she and other family members also went to visit with Aunt Jane, sing with her, tell stories with her and tell her it was OK to go on home to be with Uncle Bob. She was fully-lucid, very weak, and ready for the journey.
So we found out Thursday that Aunt Jane had quietly gone on across, and that was not easy. God go with her.
Thursday evening, I got the call that my mom (whose insistence on smoking throughout her entire adult life has had the predictable consequences) was in the ER, severe abdominal pain. I was there, hung out until about 1:30 a.m., when CT showed nothing severe and she went home (something was prescribed for the symptoms, and I am glad I was not around for the denoument, and enough about that).
So it was not without considerable anticipation that we hit the road Friday evening to drive down to our little log cabin just outside Fredericksburg, in the central Texas hill country, for a long weekend of relaxation (and a diversion to Austin for Tomster and me to watch the 'Horns play). We drove in a borrowed Tahoe, so we could bring a small sleeper sofa down there ("Won't it fit in the A36?" she asked imploringly; "Not in one piece," says I).
Now I am prone to occasional bad thoughts ("ideation," I think the psychs call it...), and had had a couple of visions of the log bauble (so called because its purchase, for Celia, substituted for jewels...) sitting reduced to a pile of cinders. So it was reassuring when, at about 11:30 p.m., we came around the bend and saw the place looking just like we left it- all in one, unburned, piece. So silly to think these things.
The plan: unload the necessities, hustle Tomster off to bed, and sit on the back porch with a couple of frosty ones, watching the deer strolling by for their midnight snack.
Then I opened the door.
I guess the first thing I noticed was a loud hissing sound, and when I reached in to flip on the light, I saw water streaming down the wall to my left, and running down the wooden staircase.
And dripping from between the boards which form the ceiling of the first floor.
And standing, an inch and more deep, on the floor.
I'll admit, I was so stunned, I was nearly paralyzed, could not believe I was not dreaming a nightmare. No swear words at all, but I did invoke Our Savior's name about fifty times in succession.
Up the stairs (Careful! Very slippery there on the bare wood), and into the upstairs bathroom from which both the hissing noise and the watery welcome issued. A quick reach under the sink, a twist of the plastic fitting on the faucet's cold-water connection, and the flow was stopped (actually, almost stopped, about which more later).
Back downstairs to see what we could do to contain the damage, which was all done anyway (the water had clearly been running unchecked for days).
Pictures on the wall all ruined (including a really cool print of the Cadillac Ranch at night); hallway ceiling in sloppy mess on the floor, water standing 3" deep in the utility closet (where stands the electric water heater, arggh, and in which is found the breaker box, dripping with running water)...
...downstairs bathroom full of water and broken glass on the floor, where vanity mirror fasteners had pulled out of near-liquid drywall.
Downstairs bedroom soaked, mattress all wet, ceiling fan waterlogged (still ran, but wet blades out of balance and the pull-chain switch no longer... switches).
Miscellaneous furniture all wet. Hardwood floors up and down understandably and severely cupped.
Celia's common sense snaps me from my useless muttering, as I try drilling holes in the plywood floor of the utility closet to drain the water (how many of those would it have taken?). "Why not use the wet/dry vac?" she asks; why not, indeed?
By 3:00 a.m., all standing water sorted out, all damaged goods either thrown away or set out to dry, and the AC unit (which is under the house) actually works (display on the t-stat, soaked, not showing anything, but I turned it way down with the push buttons, and the system started right up.
And into bed we fell (well, Tommy got the upstairs sofa, and Celia and I took what has been Tommy's bed upstairs, pulling rank, in deference to the waterlogged bed downstairs.
Next day, up early to run over to pick up the rent car from the good folks at Fredericksburg FBO; I had not felt comfortable leaving Celia at the house alone without wheels while Tommy and I ran off to Austin for the football game, an dthat was before we had a certifiable family disaster to deal with). I offered to blow off the game (still had to run to Austin, I had two tickets for friends I had to deliver), but Celia assured me she was OK, and a generous infusion of coffee and kolaches bolstered our resolve.
Tommy and I had fun at the game (if you can call a 56-7 shellacking of a game, but outgunned, University of North Texas team, a "game"), and we gladly demurred post-game socializing opportunities to head on back. Celia was alone with the aftermath, and besides, I was so tired, I think I saw a purple chicano Jesus on the way back!).
Back at the forty (OK, the two, if we're counting acres), Celia had things remarkably under control. Despite threatening skies much of the day, it had not rained, and the mattress and sundry rugs and papers had pretty much dried. Bed for Tommy, and off to downtown for a much-deserved supper out for Celia.
Next day, we headed over, tandem, to take the car back to the rental outfit. On the way, I listened to our favorite local station, a folksy sort of country/folk outfit called "Revolution Radio," and their Sunday-morning staple, "Sunday Drive," where they play an hour of Texas country gospel and devotional music, which sounds hokey and just isn't. I heard a very humbly-sung and stirring rendition of "The Old Rugged Cross" by an artist I cannot yet name (I'll find out). When we got to the airport, Celia was sorta weepy/happy, and I found out then that Aunt Jane had always loved that old hymn, had sung it when they were all together for the send-off. She said she was bawling when she heard it, but she knew Aunt Jane was saying, "Hi."
Hi back at ya.
So, later that day, Celia's sister, Alyson, bro-law Jeff and sweet 15-year-old niece, Carolyn, visited per plan; they had offered to defer the visit because of the leak, but life does go on, right? They could commiserate about the water, besides, as a couple of years ago, some teens had broken into their home in Houston and, after stealing some stuff, actually imitated the morons in "Home Alone" by stopping up drains and turning on faucets (imagine, having fictional idiots as role models...).
They came, we toured the house (that was quick!), and headed over to hang out at Luckenbach for a few hours (perhaps the best thing about our new cabin is its very close proximity to Luckenbach, perhaps the single coolest place I know), to listen to music and drink a few frosty ones under the trees.
As always, a great time there, we always meet someone we enjoy visiting with there, and their version of open-mike was great, some really good talents (amazes me how the band, after about ten seconds of a song they have never heard, pick up and accompany with keyboard, bass guitar and drums).
Then Tommy went missing; we were not terribly worried, because he always meest other kids there to play with, and it's sort of a feel-good community watch out for everyone kind of place anyway. Finally, we spotted him, sitting at the back of the stage, air-drumming.
That boy.
During a break, the drummer brought him over to the drum set for some pointers. It's just that kind of place.
Back home for brisket (Cooper's, Llano, pilots love it and they darned well should), baked beans, slaw, brownies and a darned good red Zinfandel. Topped-off with s'mores.
===
Finally figured out, the line from the cut-off to the sink faucet was stretched waaaaay too tight (36" line, needed probably 42"), strain just caused the fitting to split. Waiting to break for ten years, probably, but had to do it right when our first payment's due. Figures.
Back home today, driving through heavy rain (don't mind, we need it).
====
But the good stuff?
Tommy really stepped-up during the clean up, no complaints and lots of great help.
And Celia's sister, Candy, who had not spoken to her in six years or so, put all that aside (whatever "that" was) and called when she found out Aunt Jane was ill, and sorta admitted it might not be a bad thing to be a family again.
And I am blessed with good friends, who sometimes manage to call at just the right time to cheer me up (and you know who you are).
So I shared my too-long story with my friends. Y'all be safe.
/s/ Spike
