Sometimes I tell stories more than once. So stop me if you’ve heard this one before…
Once upon a time my smaller, younger family moved to Indianapolis. We found a great little neighborhood to live in, and we bought a cute little house for our cute little selves. The trees were enormous, the mortgage was not. Bunnies lived under the shed, and the birds alone were worth moving to Indiana for. Also, we bargained for the kitchen chairs, which were handmade and super cool (I have yet to own another piece of furniture quite as awesome as those chairs).
So we moved into the house. We unpacked our little belongings. We stocked the cool pantry (it was handmade, like the chairs, and equally awesome) and began our first week in our home. On Sunday, as we are wont to do don’t you love that word, wont?) we went to church for several hours. Four hours, that day. Not all four of those were worship hours, but we were most definitely gone for four hours. Are you sensing that this was a long time? And that this detail may come back to bite us all? Good, then.
Lo, those many hours later, we pulled into the garage. And we smiled at the delight of having a garage. Because we were grateful that way. And then, something caught my eye.
Water.
On the garage floor.
Strange, I thought. How is this floor wet? Hmmm, I thought. It seems to be seeping in from the door over there. The door that leads from the hallway to the garage. The door into the house…
So Husband and I each unlatched a Kid from kidharness, and we walked to the door. Splashed to the door. Husband opened the door, and I looked up.
It is raining, I thought. Raining in my hallway. There was a great deal of water dripping from the ceiling. [1] Especially around the light-fixture area. I stood and stared, water splashing into the soaked carpet at my feet. Kid 2 squirmed out of my arms and began stomping in the puddles. The puddles that were inside our house. I kept staring at the dripping ceiling, because I’m good in a crisis.
Husband, even better in a crisis, ran upstairs to see the source of the water. (Yes. I married a genius. Left to my own devices, I would have stared at that ceiling until it fell on my head. More on that later.) He found that the hose connecting the toilet to the wall had come unconnected. You know this hose? The one that doesn’t actually turn off? The one through which a constant stream of high-pressure water flows, allowing the privileged to flush, whenever we feel so inclined? Yes? You know it? Well, there it was, stil screwed into the wall, but flailing like a firehose that nobody was holding on to, spraying jets of water all over the bathroom, including behind the room-length mirror [2].
In my memory, Husband stands in that bathroom ankle deep in water, handily turning off the water faucet thingie behind the toilet. In reality, I never went upstairs. I couldn’t. I was busy. Staring at the dripping ceiling.
I think he probably said something at that point. Something helpful, like Hey, I’ve got the water turned off. Maybe you could drag some furniture outside. Because I started dragging furniture outside. “Furniture” at this point in our marriage included (but was not quite limited to) a garage-sale papasan and those excellent kitchen chairs. So I took them out. And Husband assessed damage. And I started to sniffle. I also had the distinct impression that the girls should be outside. So I brought something toylike outside and stuck it in the papasan, and told them it was playtime, they were birds, and this was their nest. They bought it. How cute were they?
And so I stood there, having moved from the dripping hallway into the dripping family room, staring at the ceiling while Husband went to Kroger to rent one of those wet-vac things that a person kind of hopes never to have to rent. Also, thank you, Kroger, for being open on a Sunday. At least that Sunday. And as I stood there, watching water seep through the ceiling of our just-bought house, I thought, Okay. We’re good. We have a handle on this situation. [3]
Which was when the family room ceiling fell all over the family room.
Do you know what that sounds like? Three hundred square feet of soaking wet drywall (irony, anyone?) hitting soggy carpet?
Also, do you know how heavy that stuff is? I spun around (Yes. I spun. I was much younger then.) and saw my Kids, still chirping in the papasan, outside, away from danger of being crushed by the ceiling. I prayed my thanks, which may have been the only logical hing I was capable of that day, and started dragging drywall outside. May I mention again, wet drywall is heavy. Really heavy. Also, August in Indiana? It’s hot. And muggy. And humid. And I was wearing a dress.
I like to try to imagine Husband’s face when he returned home that day, giant red wet-vac in hand, from his unplanned trip to Kroger, to see the kids captured in the furniture outside and the ceiling on the floor. Because honestly, I can’t remember. Was he amused? Amazed that I had gotten the girls outside? Grumpy that any of this was happening? Wishing we’d lived there long enough to know… anyone who could come help us? Was he shaking his head? I can’t remember at all. I just kept dragging muddy chunks of drywall outside until the girls/baby birds needed a snack. [4]
The blurry next week included a fantastic homeowners’ insurance response, a very cute restoration team (no, really, they were very cute), a whole lot of fans blowing hot, humid air around our house and under our carpets, rewalling, repainting, re-ceiling-ing, and a visit from Husband’s whole family. All of which we survived. And in retrospect, it was an ordeal. But at the moment, in the whirl, the thing I remember most, the moment that caused the greatest twinge, was throwing away the 12-pack of Charmin Ultra that was pyramid-stacked under the sink. Oh, that nice, thick TP, wasted. It broke my heart a little.
A lot.
Things are clearer and funnier in retrospect, but at that moment, the Charmin was all I was really able to mourn.
Why do I tell you this story today? I don’t know. Irene aftermath? Emily’s floody toilet? (That’s it, really.) Amnesia prevention? (That, too.) I just want to say to all of you who have to do the big messy water-related cleanup, that it shall pass. The mess will go. The carpets will dry (mostly) and the really important things will still be right there, stuck in the papasan, eating grapes and pretzels and singing like baby birds.
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[1] You may think “a great deal of water” and “dripping” don’t really go together. If this is the case, I congratulate you on your good luck. You have obviously never had water dripping from a ceiling in your home. Consider it a blessing.
[2] That was the longest bathroom we’ve ever had. Maybe 15 feet of mirror. It was a large, heavy mirror is what I’m saying.
[3] I may have a problem with denial. But probably not.
[4] I like to think I fed them gummy worms, but really? I didn’t buy junk food in those days. That was for Kids 3 and 4, apparently.
(14) Comments for this blog
Oh wow!!! That would be such a nightmare. I’m glad it turned out okay (after all the work and guests. wow!)
Oh wow!!! That would be such a nightmare. I’m glad it turned out okay (after all the work and guests. wow!)
You told that story beautifully. I really like the baby birds parts. Especially at the end. Ah, perspective. Ain’t it grand?
You told that story beautifully. I really like the baby birds parts. Especially at the end. Ah, perspective. Ain’t it grand?
Oh, Life! It can bite you in the butt some days, can’t it? LOL!
I’ve had my own flooding horror stories, I’d like to forget.
I read your google bio on men with British accents and thought you might enjoy these, http://writingwithshelly.blogspot.com/2011/08/bit-of-ladies-post.html and http://writingwithshelly.blogspot.com/2011/09/hot-guys-in-doublets-merlin.html
(I take suggestions 😉
Oh, Life! It can bite you in the butt some days, can’t it? LOL!
I’ve had my own flooding horror stories, I’d like to forget.
I read your google bio on men with British accents and thought you might enjoy these, http://writingwithshelly.blogspot.com/2011/08/bit-of-ladies-post.html and http://writingwithshelly.blogspot.com/2011/09/hot-guys-in-doublets-merlin.html
(I take suggestions 😉
That sounds like an absolute nightmare. My hubby would have been the level-headed one and I would have been dumb-struck.
I love trees and fluffy animals. I bet you made great memories there.
That sounds like an absolute nightmare. My hubby would have been the level-headed one and I would have been dumb-struck.
I love trees and fluffy animals. I bet you made great memories there.
Loved reading this, so well written. Love how the little baby birds can just go on without even noticing that there’s a crisis.
Glad you survived the flood, unfortunately we can totally relate, and on more than one occasion.
Loved reading this, so well written. Love how the little baby birds can just go on without even noticing that there’s a crisis.
Glad you survived the flood, unfortunately we can totally relate, and on more than one occasion.
That was the perfect post for me to read today. And the Charmin? I seriously laughed out loud. Because I felt that loss too. Seriously.
The saddest part of your story was that you didn’t know anyone to help you–wish I had known you then. And lived in Indianapolis. And owned a wet-vac (since we’re making wishes).
Oh, how we have used our wet-vac (best wedding present ever).
That was the perfect post for me to read today. And the Charmin? I seriously laughed out loud. Because I felt that loss too. Seriously.
The saddest part of your story was that you didn’t know anyone to help you–wish I had known you then. And lived in Indianapolis. And owned a wet-vac (since we’re making wishes).
Oh, how we have used our wet-vac (best wedding present ever).
Oh how sad! And you make it sound so LOL funny. Poor guys. I’m glad it’s all over now. We have a dripping ceiling and are basically ignoring it at this point. I guess I’m even less of a genious than you.
Oh how sad! And you make it sound so LOL funny. Poor guys. I’m glad it’s all over now. We have a dripping ceiling and are basically ignoring it at this point. I guess I’m even less of a genious than you.