“Wet Blanket”

 

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-20)

Water woes.

Ever since moving to the rural, mobile-home community of Rustic Pines, in eastern Geauga County, Ohio, I have fretted over issues with water. The quality and supply of this essential flow has been unreliable, maddening, and since a submetering company arrived, costly. Early in the 2000’s, it was not unusual to find visible sediment pouring from our home faucets. A reality that had my wife wishing for some kind of intervention by local reporters. Rust, dirt, and chemicals were a persistent presence. Just as ubiquitous were letters from the park owners, I & R Properties, Incorporated. They regularly sent assurance that EPA tests had certified our water supply to be safe for human consumption.

The claims were more than suspect. Their cheerful messages teetered on the brink of a disinformation campaign. We were not believers.

In recent years, however, the drama of such issues faded. I accepted the necessity of buying potable water, off-site. I also came to view the exorbitant rise in my water bills, from $15.00 at the most, to $63.65, as a simple rent increase. Because I was now disabled and retired, moving seemed unlikely. My fate was to remain a part of the neighborhood. One I had inhabited for nearly two decades.

My companion throughout much of this period, a Black Labrador Retriever, had aged to the point of 13 years, and beyond. He preferred to sleep at the foot of my bed, on folded blankets. A spot that was both handy and practical. I liked it that he stayed close. But on a particular morning, I noticed that his bedding had become wet and soiled. Stained brown with what I thought must be canine urine. Because of his advanced years, I reckoned he had lost control of his bladder. Something I anticipated, yet dreaded from afar. We had shared a long journey together. Now, it seemed, the end times were at hand.

I picked up his blanket, and threw it in the washer.

For a couple of days, I repeated this cycle. Changing out his comforter dutifully, and doing small loads of laundry to keep up the pace. The floor grew sopping wet from each accident of nature. Finally, I relocated him to another room where it was easier to clean up the mess. But then, I realized that the puddle of stale fluid remained in place. In fact, it had spread wider across the carpet. Under the covers, at night, I was struck by a perplexing query. Were these bursts born of a weak constitution, or something more mechanical? A failure, perhaps, of the hot water tank that sat in the front closet, next to his favored resting spot?

I threw off the covers and held out my cellphone flashlight. There, in a cubbyhole at the side of my closet, was the Rheem vessel, 40 gallons in reserve, stood in a sparkling pool of ebbing, dirty, muck. A wounded receptacle that was feeding its insides out across the floor.

I cursed in the darkness.

The unit had lasted 20 years. A span of time that made it fully immune from any legitimate complaints. Yet my stomach churned with angst. I had just spent a few hundred dollars repairing my old pickup truck, after a bout of clattering and clunking on a trip to the town square. To have another need appear so quickly made me tremble. Yet I felt relief in knowing that my pooch was not at fault. Silently, I gave thanks for his longevity.

While inspecting the tank, I realized that there were no shut-off valves installed. A typical flaw of manufactured residences like mine. Because I required two canes for remaining upright while walking, it wasn’t possible to easily hunt for clues. Yet my household Bissell rug cleaner served well to vacuum up excess moisture. Meanwhile, I pondered the plumbing system. A main valve had been installed next to my back steps, in the ground-level hydrant. It controlled the supply for every room of the residence. After clearing the bedroom, I went outside for an inspection.

Once again, I used my phone for illumination. The pipes were laid out under the floor, following industry standards. But no handle remained to control the water supply. Astoundingly, the submetering company had removed this useful tool when installing their own measuring device. And I could not kneel under the trailer with a pair of pliers.

While calling my friend who was a maintenance technician for Giant Eagle, the carpet vacuuming continued. I picked up a full reservoir of seepage with each pass around the space. The stench filled my nostrils, and the living room, nearby. Promises of rescue were made, over and over again. But no one came to help. I kept sucking up the tide with my carpet appliance. Finally, a sticker appeared on the Rheem tank, from a previous repair. “Benjamin Franklin Plumbing. If there’s any delay, it’s you we pay! Call for 24-hour service.”

I remembered their last visit, over five years ago. Also, that they had predicted a hefty price for complete replacement of the hot water tank. But my options were few. I knew that the park would dispute their responsibility with the master valve. Work on the meter itself would require calling an employee all the way from Burton, Michigan, home of Universal Utilities. The company contracted to provide submetering services. I simply wanted to avoid permanent damage to my bedroom.

With a lump in my throat, I dialed the local Franklin number for service.

My Black Lab has always appreciated visitors. So he welcomed the two fellows who arrived with much zeal. Sniffing, strutting, rubbing himself against the door, begging for pats, generally supervising the entire repair operation. Predictably, both men were of a blue-collar disposition, so they easily accepted this show of mutt motivation. Eventually, my big-pawed friend stretched out on the living room floor. Satisfied that the work was proceeding according to plan.

The old tank leaked sediment akin to motor oil as it left my home on a two-wheel dolly. An evidentiary trail followed as it rolled down the driveway. The new cask went into place with proper valves and color-coded shielding on the lines. A professional job I was glad to witness.

After the repairs were complete, I did a final vacuum with my rug cleaner. The bedroom was soaked and soggy, but on the mend. The carpet made squishing noises with each step, like a beach blanket after high tide. Still, I knew that things would soon be drying out, if patience could hold my irritation in check.

I apologized to my dog for suspecting that old age had made him wobbling, weak, and leaky. He tilted his head in a familiar way. It felt like an acceptance of my apology. Or close enough at least, to ease my pangs of guilt.

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