At first, I thought the puddle of water on the bathroom floor was the result of my having not closed the shower curtain.  But I felt around the tub and it was dry.  When a drop of water hit my head, my heart sank.  A leaking roof was the last thing I expected, and the last thing I want.  The ceiling was saturated, the plaster breaking off in chunks.  So, before the sun rose this morning, I was up on the roof, in the high wind and driving rain, laying tarps over the roof.  Lord, was I dismayed!

But my preliminary survey of the attic was encouraging: there are no visible signs of water intrusion over a wide area of the sheathing.  Rather, I suspect that the leak is occurring where the vent stack comes in contact with the asphalt shingles. I will know for sure soon.  Meanwhile, I’d just like it to stop raining.

Stay tuned.

When I arrived home from work tonight (after visiting the downtown farmers’ market and having dinner at The Top with Miriam), I found that GRU had paid us a visit and done some work in the yard.  There were tractor marks in the grass, and the yard had been dug up beneath the cedar tree.  I couldn’t find a clean-out, if one had, indeed, been installed.

I will spend all day tomorrow writing a paper and looking forward to being able to take a shower while simultaneously washing clothes, running the dishwasher, and flushing the toilet.

My spring break began a week ago, and I spent it installing paneling and a chair rail.  It involved dozens of precise measurements and intricate cuts, but by last Saturday I was putting the finishing touch on the paint.  It looks pretty good, if I do say so myself, and is by far the most cheerful room in the house.  During all my labors I regreted not being able to relax on the sofa–and I missed a couple chances to go to the beach–but, having now finished, I feel satisified.

The toilet nightmare which began on the 23rd seems to have ended.  Early that Tuesday morning I awoke to an overflowing commode.  Tuesday is my long day; my first class begins at 8:3o AM, and my last class ends at 7:00PM.  But I went to Lowe’s that morning at seven o’clock in the morning, stopped at Walgreen’s to get some medicine for the ailing Mrs. Hill, and did my best to repair the toilet before school.  But I ran out of time before I needed to leave.  I took a brutal midterm in the afternoon, and was preparing to head to my evening class when Miriam told me they were sending her to the hospital because her symptoms suggested possible appendicitis.  It wasn’t, thank goodness, and my professor was understanding when I wrote to him later.  But the toilet defeated me that night.  And when I reached the point of maximum frustration–when I stood in the doorway of my bathroom, staring at that filthy sewer hole in the floor with the roaches crawling out–I was on the verge of tears.

It was emasculating to have to call a plumber, and I worked all day Wednesday, so it was Thursday afternoon before anyone could come out.

Meanwhile, we spent Wednesday night at Sweetwater Branch Inn, in the charming 1895 McKenzie House.  The Giovanna Room was delightful, and Cornelia, who makes the breakfast the bed comes with, was very sweet.  In spite of the horrible circumstances, I still had a nice time, and would like to go back some day.

Sara was nice enough to offer to wait for the plumber for me, and he was a nice guy, too.  I was going to have him repair the rusted out cast iron flange the toilet gets bolted to, but he told me I could do it myself and save hundreds.  He told me what I needed to buy, I went to Home Depot, bought it, and had the toilet together by the time Miriam got home from work.  All was well.  Until this past Thursday night.

Thursday night, following a brutal midterm in my Early U.S. Novels course, I took a long shower, and was just beginning to mentally transition into spring break.  After I got out of the shower I flushed the toilet, and it happened again.  The plumber came back out on Friday afternoon, but I missed a chance to go to the beach with Sara.  I’ve talked to both my neighbors, and they, too, have experienced the same problem.  I am going to call GRU on Monday and have them install a clean out by the street, so if I have another blockage I might be able to clear it myself with a rented auger.  I put the toilet in place, caulked it really well, and, as of Saturday night it is doing its job.

And Miriam’s all better.

Then I heard the driver say something–first to his companion, then to me–that both dispelled my fear and surprised me.  “My father planted that tree”, he said, pointing to one of the cedars in the front yard.  The man, who appeared to be middle aged, got out of the van, introduced himself, and told me his parents lived in this house when he was born.  For the next several minutes, in a very animated fashion, he told me stories about he and his brother and father, and what the house was like when he lived here, until his teen years.  He described the inside when he lived here (“the back room [which I now call the middle room] had a built-in wall bookshelf”; “there were parquet floors” [there still are]), and told me stories about how he and his brother used to play in the yard and on the great live oak, which, of course, is much older than the neighborhood.  He told me a few things I had already surmised (our foyer used to be a screened porch; there used to be a building on the slab in our back yard), but I was thrilled to have the opportunity to ask some questions I’ve wanted answered for years.  The square cut out of the slab in the back was where his father had a brick barbecue grill, until he and his brother broke it down with a hammer when he was seven.  The house used to be green.  The bathroom tile isn’t original because his father ripped up the floor to replace a pipe.  Before the Hewetts’ house was built, the block to the west was an empty field.  He told me that for most of his childhood the house had two bedrooms, but eventually they built a small room behind the kitchen.  So, I know now that something preceded the dining room and guest room that stand today.

This man seemed so thrilled to be sharing these memories, and I felt extremely privileged to be hearing them.  I think a lot about all the places I once called home.  I’ve even driven past a few of them just like this fellow did tonight.  I’ve never met any occupants of my former homes, but I would like to think they care for these places as much as I did, and still do.

I know a beautiful old song about a man who visits the house where he grew up, and meets the family that now lives there.  He shares his memories with them and it makes him happy, but he realizes that a house is “a hotel at best”.  Just as my new friend was “a guest” in this house, so too may I be.  Just as this house means something very special to him, it means something special to me.  And some day, ages and ages hence, I may drive slowly past it, and remember everything it means to me.

• I have no working toilet in my house.
• I have several exams and papers due this week.
• My poor wife has been injured or sick for several weeks and I am powerless to make her feel any better.
• My email seems to work only around 50% of the time.
• Cox Cable switched from the national PBS high-definition feed to the local one, and now I don’t get the same programs; other programs I like show at different times; the signal looks much worse; and I will now have to endure the frequent pledge drives, which the national feed doesn’t carry.
• I still haven’t got my motorized bicycle running.
• I changed guitar strings a few weeks ago, and now my Telecaster won’t stay in tune with itself.
• My guitar makes an annoying buzzing sound because the outlet my amplifier is plugged into isn’t grounded.
• I cannot stop eating Girl Scout Cookies and I feel guilty.
• I have a million chores to do around the house and very little time to do them.
• I have to read hundreds of pages for school, and I am not up to the task.
• I am very tired, and it’s only nine o’clock in the morning.
• When I am at school, I cannot concentrate on what my professors are saying, because I am thinking about one or more of the above.

So, too, did the other nightmare of the evening: the death of our computer. Granted, it was old and had worked hard all its life, but losing it is difficult, since it received constant use. There have been occasions earlier where we’d had serious problems, but with help we got through them. This, however, is it, since it no longer seems practical to struggle just to keep it going. I know we need another computer post-haste, but I don’t know when we can obtain one, so my posts may be infrequent for a while.

Many of you may be thinking, “man lived for almost 200,000 years without air conditioning or computers; you’ll survive”. To that I say, the God who created man 6,000 years ago wants me to have access to online smut in climate controlled comfort. Gah, read your Bible!

And I’m far closer to achieving that lofty goal thanks to Kathleen, who called me yesterday afternoon and offered her help with my A/C malady. She and Steve had recently had a similar problem, and she got some OJT replacing her own fan capacitor. Together we knelt down in leaves and reached into spider webs to pull out and inspect the small metal cylinder that controls the fan that draws air across the coils of the compressor unit on the side of the house. It was 4:50 before we could see the obvious damage to the old capacitor. Luckily, the appliance parts store is four blocks from my home. We made it with minutes to spare, and the part was only $5.99. By the time Miriam arrived home from work the house was a fierce cold.

And today is Kathleen’s birthday, so, huzzah, Kathleen!

Long ago our house had a covered patio, with a door and a window (exactly like this house).  When the patio was enclosed the window was removed, and a new door was added to the outside, while the former door became an interior one.  The window opening was left essentially bare, as you can see in this photo of our house on the day we moved in.  I trimmed it up and painted it white some time back, but it wasn’t ideal.  And, considering how many books we have that need a place, Miriam’s shelf idea seemed like the perfect solution.

I began by taking apart all the wood pieces surrounding the original brick window frame.  I cut, sanded and assembled some new boards into some I salvaged, and carefully installed the whole contraption in the opening.  But arranging it so as to have four shelves for books didn’t give enough clearance for our taller tomes, so I took it all out and reassembled it to accommodate three shelves of books.  Then I cut and attached a sheet of plywood on the back, caulked and painted everything, and (ta da!) it was complete.

Mrs. Hill was pleased with the results, and so am I.  Built-ins rule.