The broom he had been carrying to sweep my spilled seeds had flown across the rocks and part of the covering over the bristles broke off. I ended up poised unsteadily on the rocks sweeping seeds into a dustpan, rather than risk my equilibrium on the bridge again. Mike refilled the seed cups and gingerly edged himself through a flowerbed to the birdfeeder. He really didn’t need to get more seed, since I was salvaging what had already been spilled, but oh well. So the birds will have a feast. I imagined them all lined up in the tree branches watching this circus and wondering if they were ever going to get breakfast.
Meanwhile, there was that pesky toilet that had decided it was going to fall apart piece by piece. That large puddle of water on the floor hadn’t left Mike in the best humor even before the incident at the bridge.
By early afternoon we had already made two trips to the large brand name hardware store and one to a smaller chain looking for elusive parts; the water was still leaking. We (I say ‘we’, but of course I wasn’t the one doing anything besides driving to and from stores) were going to have to replace the flexible hose from the wall to the toilet, including the shut-off valve, because they don’t make the right kind of old-fashioned cone-shaped washers anymore.
Did I happen to mention that Mike hates working on plumbing? It didn’t help that his vision is compromised enough to make it difficult to see what he’s doing. Don’t forget he was down on his knees, one of which is throbbing. I meekly suggested he call a friend for help; preferably someone who hadn’t recently fallen off a bridge.
I washed and dried a load of towels to have ready and waiting for the next chapter of Man vs. Toilet. I’m comfortable in the knowledge that if I had found myself living alone with a misbehaving toilet, I am reasonably certain my repairs would have included chewing gum and vegetable shortening covered with at least 15 yards of duct tape, plus a carefully positioned bucket, just in case. The hardware store would never have seen my face.
Jerry got off work and showed up at the door with two sets of flexible hosing. He had stopped at the store on the way over and decided that it would save time (insert laughter here) if he bought two sizes and returned one later. Good plan, but he didn’t realize that our system had a shut-off valve attached to it. So Mike and Jerry had to go back to the store again to get fittings and a valve, or something. I don’t know, since I was more or less hiding at this stage.
It turned out that someone put the wrong valve in the right box they purchased. I implore you, what were the chances? Mike also discovered sometime during the course of events that the main water shut-off valve to the house doesn’t close properly, so the water leaking in the bathroom couldn’t be completely stopped during repairs. Jerry had to leave the wrong size valve in place while they returned to get the right one, because at least it slowed the leak down somewhat. I was beginning to wonder if I should be more worried about building an ark than keeping a supply of dry towels on hand.
Jerry jokingly confided to Mike that unwritten rules state there will always be a two-trip minimum to the hardware store whenever plumbing repairs are involved, three trips is normal, four trips is above normal, and after five trips its time to throw in the towel, so to speak, and call a professional. By my count, this was Jerry’s third trip and Mike’s sixth. The good news is that the correct valve was installed and the leak stopped. The bad news is that Mike and I still need to make a seventh trip to the store to return the wrong valve, but that doesn’t really count … does it?
I ran the final load of towels through the laundry that evening. Mike and I limped off to bed with our scrapes and bruises (to both pride and body), wondering how stiff and sore we’d become overnight, but at least we could sleep easy knowing the toilet was fixed.
There was supposed to be a ‘happily ever after’ ending here. I woke up at 1:15 a.m. needing to make one of those predictable trips to the bathroom (can’t remember the last time I slept through the entire night). I carefully eased out of bed testing my sore knee, bruised leg and stiff back before shuffling off in the darkness. I flushed the toilet, washed, and got back to bed, pulling warm blankets around me like a cocoon. Hmm … was it just my paranoia or did it seem like it was taking an exorbitant amount of time for the toilet tank to refill? Nope. The water was running and running and running.
I hobbled over to Mike’s side of the bed and shook him awake, "Honey? The water’s running in the tank and won’t shut off," and because I felt I had to offer up something else, added, "I tried jiggling the handle."
He slowly sat up, achy muscles and joints protesting. He told me later his first thought was that I was playing a cruel joke and he was about to tell me, "That’s not funny," when he heard the water. He fiddled with it, probably even jiggled the handle, with no success. I muttered something about the fixture being ‘possessed’ and maybe we needed a priest, not a plumber. Mike ended up shutting off the newly replaced valve (which worked perfectly now) and going back to bed. I lulled myself asleep trying to think positive thoughts, like the fact that we have a second bathroom and the marvels of indoor plumbing over outhouses. Some people with lesser imaginations just count sheep.
Morning dawned and I began my routines while Mike peered into the toilet tank. I made it across the bridge with a fresh supply of birdseed without incident. When I got back into the house, Mike met me with a wet rag in his hands, "I found the problem."
He had apparently tossed a small hand towel into the tank when he first shut off the water (as much as was humanly possible at that point in the saga) to dry things up. He doesn’t even remember doing it, but that’s what he believes might have transpired. Anyway, whether the towel got there the day before or two weeks ago, it had finally taken on a life of its own and inched its way under the flapper, propping it open so the water kept running.
When I later shared these adventures with a friend, her comment was, "I guess my day wasn’t so bad after all." So if there is a moral here, I suppose it’s that you should keep in mind that things can always be worse, they will always get better and (with heartfelt apologies to Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel) I hope you’ll always have a safe bridge over troubled waters.
©2011 Roberta McReynolds for SeniorWomen.com
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