Reflections - Internal Climate Change (Part 3)

Herb Digging, Randy and Spence Talking, Greg Monitoring

A gray-haired Kennihan employee with tattoos on the back of his hands operated the backhoe Friday morning, December 17. Wary of approaching him in the scraping, crunching, beeping machine, I headed for the two younger employees standing at the edge of the deepening trench that would bring the geothermal pipes from the first well to the house. I approached these young men from behind. “Welcome. May I take photos of you working?”

Greg, a geothermal pipe and duct specialist, chuckled. “Go ahead.”

Because they were both tall and athletic, I used Greg’s sporty black beard to distinguish him from Randy, the clean shaven head plumber who came to spot and fetch. He smiled and nodded.

Greg shouted to the older man in the backhoe. “Hey, Herb. She wants to take your picture.”

“Grrr. I’ll have to stop the machine until she gets out of the way.”

Though I stood farther from the ditch than the helpers, I backed away, circled the house to keep far from the backhoe, and took photos from the porch steps.

Greg jumped into the deepening trench to shovel dirt off the basement’s Superior Walls and rocks away from the sides of the trenches.

Herb scooped them up. When the sides of the trench crumbled, he yelled, “Get the metal box. I don’t want this caving in on Greg.”

Randy fetched metal bars and assembled them. Greg chained the box to the bucket. Herb lowered it into the five by two-foot trench near the basement wall.

Going inside, I set the camera on the kitchen table and fetched a rooibos tea bag from the cupboard.

BRRRRRREET.

The metal stairs vibrated from the loft to the basement.

I dropped the tea bag, covered my ears, and hoped the cats wouldn’t freak.

BRRRRRREET.

Ande dove under the sofa and sucked in his cheeks. Gilbert dashed behind the wood stove. Rills crouched under the kitchen table.

I crept down the vibrating stairs. Eight inches above the basement floor, the drill had bored two holes like snake eyes, each big enough to allow a fat black snake to slither through.

Not wanting to miss a moment of the geothermal process, I raced back to the kitchen window.

Outside Randy jumped into the trench with Greg. Herb directed. Greg pulled the geothermal pipes—hard, one-inch, black plastic tubing—from the well across the trench. Randy threaded the pipes through the holes. He climbed out and hustled to the basement.

I crossed to the steps in time to see him pull the pipes across the basement floor. The basement door slammed shut. Footsteps crunched gravel. Silence. I settled in the great room with the mail.

Spence returned from dumping the compost pail. Scratching Rills behind the ears he said, “They’re arguing in the truck.”

“What?” I set down the Christmas note I’d been reading and searched Spence’s face for an explanation. 

“The young workers. They’re yelling at Herb. Telling him he made the people afraid to come out of their house.”

I peeked out the kitchen window. They had deserted the worksite—the trench from the first well across the driveway to the basement. Grabbing my camera, I crept the long way around the house, rather than behind the backhoe, to get the view from the opposite side and to avoid attracting Herb’s attention. I stopped two yards from the trench and focused the camera.

“Let me show you where you can stand closer,” he said walking over.

Closer? He’d been obstinate that I stay far from the trench earlier. I forced myself to look at him.

Herb pointed at his feet three-inches from the edge. “Stand here. It’s solid. I’ll explain it to you.” He gave me a friendly smile and stepped back for me to take his place.

I did, clutching the camera like a child squeezing a teddy bear.

He motioned to the silver-gray grout oozing around the pipes bending into the well. “A little of the grout spills into the trench.”

My hands shook from nervousness at Herb’s change in attitude so those pictures blurred. As he continued to explain, however, I relaxed and the pictures came out clearer.

“We’ll cement around the intake pipes so no water leaks in.” He swiveled his wrists in circles. “I’ll dump the good dirt with no rocks first. See I piled it over there.” He pointed to what looked like topsoil. “That will cushion the pipes. We’ll fill in the trench with the rocky dirt then dig the next one.” Herb gazed down the road. “We’re waiting for the inspector. He wants to see the pipes before we fill it in.” Herb sighed. “I’ve called. The boss has called. Neither of us have heard back.”

I thanked Herb.

He gave me a half smile and ambled to his truck.

 

Randy Monitoring, Greg in Trench, Herb Taking Photos for the Inspector

Around 2:00, Randy cemented the pipes while Herb took pictures with his iPad. Then Herb shook the backhoe shovel, sprinkling good dirt over the geothermal pipes. He jumped out of the cab and took more photos with just the tops of the pipes showing. Greg and Randy strung yellow caution tape over the pipes. Herb took photos then sprinkled good dirt over the caution tape. He shoved the rocky dirt into the trench then rolled back and forth, back and forth to tamp the earth down.

While they worked, I photographed from the porch steps.

Still waiting for the inspector so Herb could show him the photos and explain the process, the crew sat in the truck. 

With a break in the action, I decided to make a solo trip to Meadville. I told Spence I wanted to pick up the new medicine Dr. Mathews had prescribed for my tremors—the propranolol he’d prescribed had made me short of breath and wheeze to the point Spence wanted to take me to the emergency room. Spence offered to get the medicine. But I said I also wanted to select thread for sewing butterfly note cards. I didn’t mention planning to buy an emergency auto kit and other Christmas gifts for Spence and his Maverick that, despite ordering last June, still didn’t have a build date. He shrugged and walked me to the garage. Staying away from the Kennihan truck parked beside the road, I took the tractor path by the evergreen grove.

Herb spotted us and hustled across the lawn.

So much for sneaking away.

“The fellas said I made you afraid to come out of the house.”

Yikes. How to answer that diplomatically? I hadn’t pestered the crew like I had the two drillers, but I did get the pictures and the information I wanted. “You were just keeping everyone safe.”

Herb’s face relaxed. “Yeah. The inspector never came. I’ll send him the photos when we get back to the office. It’s too late to dig another trench today. We’ll do it Monday.”

Monday morning I lay on the sofa nibbling a potato pancake because Dr. Matthews’s new primidone prescription caused me to vomit for twelve hours Saturday and spend Sunday watching six mediocre Christmas movies. Gravel crunched in the driveway. A pickup door slammed. No one came to the porch.

Curious, I put my breakfast on the coffee table and eased to the bedroom to peek out the window. A gray-haired man, carrying a clipboard, tramped through the mud around the third well site.

Standing in the doorway, Spence held his fists on his hips and said to me, “What do you think you’re doing?”

I dodged his question. “I think the inspector’s here.”

He stepped back and pointed down the hall. “Back to the sofa. I’ll take care of him.”

But the inspector got into his pickup and drove away before Spence tucked the blanket around my ankles and stepped onto the porch.

Two hours later Zach, Kennihan’s duct work expert, arrived. He had visited Wells Wood a week before with Jerry, the project boss, to determine the number and location of vents. Zach also measured for duct work. This time he came with a helper named Mark.

“On Friday, while I was gone,” I told Zach, “Greg and Randy drilled a vent hole in the wrong place. It’s between the bed and dresser, not under the desk.”

“No,” Zach said in his calm, patient voice. “I changed the plan. I’m putting two service vents in the master bedroom. It’s fine.”

The “master bedroom” and guest room are exactly the same size. Did Zach really change his mind? He could be covering for his colleagues’ mistake, or he could intend to make the room warmer than the others. I’ll never know. Following Zach and Mark to the bedroom with the camera, I leaned on the doorjamb.

 

Zach Sawing, Mark Vacuuming

Zach moved the chair, throw rug, and electric cords before sitting cross legged by the desk. Mark crouched beside him. Zach traced a template and asked for the drill. Mark hustled down to the basement and fetched it. Zach drilled the blade straight into the edge of the drawn rectangle. Both went downstairs to check the placement. They moved a set of braces between the floor joists.

Back upstairs, Ande hopped onto the bed to watch.

Mark turned on the floor vac.

Ande’s ears swiveled. His claws dug into the quilt on the bed.

With Mark holding the nozzle of the vac beside the blade of the sawzall, Zach pressed the trigger. Rrrrrr.

Ande bolted out of the room and scratched his way down the hall.

I lost count of the numerous trips Mark ran up and down the stairs. Once Zach lifted out the cut floor, Mark pushed the metal vent up from the basement. Zach hammered the vent in place and taped a piece of cardboard over it because the service covers hadn’t arrived yet, a supply chain issue.

While I rested on the sofa, Zach and Mark installed a return vent behind the bedroom door and moved to the guest room. Rills and Gilbert had napped through the bedroom drilling. They woke for the guest room work. Ears flattened and tails thrashing, the tabby brothers stalked through the great room. Ande took refuge under the plant table.

An hour after the indoor team arrived, Herb came with Justin—plumper, plainer, and quieter than the handsome assistants Herb had yesterday.

Shuttling between the bedroom window and the great room, I kept an eye on both crews.

Herb dug a trench in the front yard four feet out from the middle of the house then made a ninety degree turn toward the second well across the driveway. They lowered the metal box into the trench by the house and took a lunch break.

Zach didn’t take lunch breaks so Mark kept working too. I hoped he’d eaten brunch during the hour and a half drive from Butler. They opened the bathroom window, covered the surfaces with drop cloths, and drilled through the ceramic tiles. RRRRRRR. Rills monitored from under a kitchen chair and Gilbert from my hewn log chair in the great room. Ande scampered to the guest room and squeezed between the bed and the wall.

When Zach and Mark moved furniture around in the kitchen, Ande’s brothers joined him in the guest room.

Zach traced a service vent under the kitchen window. Mark checked its position. They opened that window, sat on the floor, then covered themselves and the work area with a blue cloth. Buzzing and hammering penetrated the cover cloth.

 

Zach and Mark Sawing Tile for the Kitchen Vent

After their lunch break, Herb extended the driveway branch of the trench. Justin measured the depth and shoveled out rocks. That trench complete, Justin, BRRRRRREET, drilled holes in the basement wall. Herb clomped to the basement. “I told you to leave a space between the holes,” he yelled. “Not put them together.”

I didn’t hear Justin’s answer.

“I don’t believe it. I honestly don’t believe it,” Herb ranted. “You got the holes so damn close together.”

Maybe they could fix it? When Herb tramped out, I tiptoed halfway downstairs. Justin had left less than an inch between the holes.

The basement door squeaked open.

I hustled back up.

Zach and Mark repeated their kitchen window procedure by the great room window, but the drop cloth didn’t cover their derrieres completely.

RRRRR. BANG. RRRRR. CLATTER.

Tile dust floated down the hall and tickled my nose.

To the cats’ dismay, Zach and Mark sawed a total of nine vent holes. Those plus the one made Friday totaled ten—seven supply and three return.

Outside, Herb sprinkled dirt over the tubes in the bottom of the driveway trench. Justin spread yellow caution tape over the tubes. They filled in the trench across the driveway to the ninety degree turn. Justin arranged orange, plastic fencing around the open hole outside. Herb finished the basement connections from the second well’s tubes. All four men left at 4:30.

Quiet.

The cats relaxed.

I went downstairs. The holes for the pipes were closer than those for the first well, but Herb had managed to get wider spaces. He must have cemented some holes in and bored others.

At 10 a.m. Tuesday, Winter Solstice, two Kennihan trucks brought the same four workers to Wells Wood. Soft spoken, patient Zach moved junk in the basement so he and Mark could set the WaterFurnace 7 Series under the main support beam.

Ande trotted downstairs to supervise until sheet metal crackled. He scampered to the top step. 

Zach banged a screwdriver into a metal duct to make a hole for metal shears.

Ande dashed to the loft and hunkered beside my yoga bag. 

Zach cut holes in the ducts for take offs. Under the guest room return vent, Mark stapled thermopan, silver colored cardboard that insulates and muffles sounds.

Outside the backhoe rumbled, and Herb dug the third trench.

I photographed him through the bedroom window—an experiment to see if photos would take through the screen.

You’re a coward.

It’s a great angle!

You didn’t ask Herb a single question yesterday.

I’m staying out of his way.

You’re avoiding him.

Maybe.

I forced myself to go outside to take pictures of the third trench.

Herb walked over. “We broke a pipe to your cistern.” He pointed into the trench. “We didn’t know it was there.”

“I didn’t either. I thought it was over here.” I motioned from the corner of the house to the cistern. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Herb’s white beard, lips, and cheeks morphed into a gracious anyone-can-make-mistakes smile. The tattoos on the back of his hands danced as he illustrated his next sentence. “The pipes come from the gutters and meet to form a T in front of the house. Then the pipe goes at a diagonal to your cistern. We’ll fix it. Jerry’s coming up with a part this afternoon and bringing the truck to haul the backhoe. I’ve got another job tomorrow so we’ve got to load it up tonight.” Still smiling, he climbed into the cab and dug around the remaining pieces of the pipe. He changed the bucket size from big to medium to small to finesse the job.

I left him at it and checked on the inside crew. A hammer banged against a screwdriver to punch a hole in metal. A drill buzzed to screw the trunk line to the support beam. No cats watched the action. By 4:30, the end of the day for the inside crew, the service trunk line hung in place with the middle fatter than the ends to increase the speed of the air, according to Zach. They also had most of the return trunk line installed.

Jerry arrived when Zach and Mark left.

As the sky darkened on the shortest day of the year, the outdoor crew hustled to fix the broken pipe, fill in the last trench, and load the backhoe. Spence walked about chatting with the workers. I carried my camera and wished for more light. Herb grinned at me. “Here comes the boss.” He waved in my direction. How could I have thought him prickly? He had a cordial part to his nature.

Spence snatched a green post-it note off the electric box and waved it at Herb and Jerry. “Did you fellas put this here?”

They shook their heads.

Spence read the message aloud. “Approved.” He scrunched his forehead. “Huh. The inspector must have left it yesterday morning.”

Jerry took the note and stuffed it into his pocket. The men hustled to their trucks and drove off.

With the outdoor work completed and approved, I thought I wouldn’t see Herb again.

I was wrong.

 

Four Geothermal Pipes into the Basement from the Front Yard

 

End of Part 3

 

 Reflections - Internal Climate Change (Part 2) New Wells for Wells Wood

Kevin Drilling and Dan Putting Up the Fabric Barrier

The rumble of two heavy trucks broke the country quiet at 9 a.m. Wednesday, December 15. Kevin and Dan from Dillan Geothermal and Well Drilling had arrived.

Hustling out to greet them, Spence asked if they would like some hot coffee.

They would.

While Spence brewed a fresh pot, I ambled out with another question. “May I take pictures of you working?”

The drillers grinned at each other. Perhaps Spence had warned them about me. Kevin, the lead driller, laughed. “Sure, but we’ll have to wear our hard hats.”

Washing breakfast dishes gave me a great view of the guys in their hard hats.

Dan signaled, the truck beeped, and Kevin maneuvered the drill into position above the white X painted on the grass across from the kitchen window. The back tires sunk into the soft ground.

Whirling his hand, Dan halloed. Kevin eased the truck back to the gravel driveway. After Dan dragged metal plates over the rutted grass, Kevin backed the truck onto the plates. No sinking.

At the back of the truck near the drill, Kevin removed the cover from the control panel revealing an array of levers and buttons. Selecting one lever, he pulled. Metal jacks shot out from the truck, slammed onto the ground, and raised all eight back tires into the air. The derrick swept ninety degrees counterclockwise to a vertical position. A twenty-foot drill extension swung back and forth until Kevin stopped it with his hand and guided it over the two-foot drill bit. Swiveling, the pipe screwed into the bit.

Dan unrolled fabric with wood stakes attached. Since they didn’t want the mud-rock slurry—that would spray out of the well—flowing downhill, across the floodplain, and into Deer Creek, he pounded the stakes into the ground forming a three-foot high, U-shaped barrier below the well.

They put in ear plugs, and a grinding roar swiveled six cat ears. Dirt sprayed.

Dishes done, I spent the rest of the day slipping in and out of boots to hustle out into spritzing rain with my camera. At least the temperature rose to a balmy 51° F (11° C).

Five feet down, the drill hit an old creek bed. Water and rock sprayed. Further down a white cloud announced they’d hit bedrock.

Dan dragged what looked like a fire hose from the second truck’s tank to the drilling truck.

After attaching the hose, Kevin pushed buttons on the panel to pump water into the well.

The truck roared. The drill twirled. Slate-gray rock chips and water sprayed onto the ground. Scooping shovelfuls of the slurry to clear the area around the drill, Dan deposited them at the bottom of the fabric. The fabric bulged with watery sludge but didn't break.

Mid morning Jerry, the Kenninhan project boss, arrived to check on the drillers.

Ande, our ambassador cat, circled Jerry’s legs.

He stooped to scratch behind Ande’s ears. “How’s my buddy today?” When the contractor pulled a copy of the eleven page permit from his briefcase, his hand shook and his voice quickened. “The inspector emailed this yesterday. I want a copy of it on the site.”

I tucked the papers into my orange geothermal folder on the end table.

Jerry’s neck muscles tensed and his voice increased to half-shout volume. “I’ve been playing phone tag with the inspector. He wants to see the trenches dug. I plan to dig Friday. I can’t leave two-foot wide, five-foot deep trenches open for days until he gets around to inspecting.” Jerry flung his arms over his head and pursed his lips. “That’s dangerous. We can take photos for him, but I won’t leave the trenches open.”

Ande put a paw on Jerry’s puffy plastic shoe covering.

Jerry’s tense frame and face relaxed. Placing his hands on his thighs he bent to look into the cat’s eyes. “You’re a good boy.” Jerry scratched the cat’s ears and left.

Outside, Dan waved while Kevin drove the truck forward and back to position the drill for the second well across from the guest room window. The three tabbies took turns sitting on the bed, flicking ears at the noisy truck, and watching the drillers.

Rills Watching

I carried my camera outside again.

Without speaking, Kevin flipped levers and Dan shoveled dirt that the drill sprayed. Kevin pushed buttons, and Dan fetched the hose. Still not talking, Kevin grabbed the hose and attached it to the truck. Kevin used his shovel to direct a stream of rock slurry toward the fabric barrier.

Admiring their silent coordination, I shouted, “Watching you two is like watching a ballet.”

Kevin jumped off the truck. “I’ve run this drilling truck for fifteen years.” He monitored the spinning drill for a moment. “I apprenticed on it two years before that.”

By the end of the afternoon, they’d dug the second 225-foot well, and Jerry called on the house phone. His voice sounded calm like when he greeted Ande. “I finally talked to the inspector. He’ll come on Friday to see the trench and the connection to the house.”

A single heavy truck broke the country silence at 9:00 Thursday morning, December 16.

I hustled outside in forest green yoga pants, a hunter-orange jacket, and a purple knit stocking cap. The drillers, in mud spattered blue jeans and gray hoodies, made me look like a tropical parrot. Camera in hand, I asked, “Is that a blow torch you’re using?” 

“Yes.” Kevin waved the flame back and forth above the U-bend at the bottom of the loop of hard, one-inch plastic, black tubing—the geothermal pipe.

The day before they had unrolled a four-foot wheel of the tubing across the field which left a black trail like a curvy medieval serpent.

“We have to get the curves out. It has to be straight to go into the well.” Satisfied with the straightening, Kevin stuck a ten-foot, half-inch diameter, metal pole between the pipes and held them straight.

To secure the pipes to the pole, Dan wound duct tape around them.

Kevin shoved the pipe into a twenty-foot steel casing—the commencement of the pipes vs the drillers wrestling match. Kevin grabbed and pushed. Marching across the front yard, Dan dragged and lifted the pipe to give Kevin some slack. At one point, when Kevin let go to grab another section, the pipe pushed back several feet.

“Why is it coming out?’ I held the camera against my chest. “Is it at the bottom already?”

While Dan toted the hose from the water tank truck, Kevin wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “No. We hit groundwater. The well is full of water.” He fetched the open ends of the tubing. “We need to put water into the tubes to make them heavier.”

Water flowed, muscles bulged, and the wrestling match resumed. Grab-push-drag-lift. Panting, Kevin traded places with Dan. Grab-push-drag-lift. Watching them made me tired. Grab-push-drag-lift. All of a sudden the two stopped and let go of the pipes.

“Is it all the way down?” I stared at the extra loopy piping that snaked across the front yard to the south garden. “Could you tell by feel?”

Kevin Pushing and Dan Arching the Pipe Up to Get It into the Well

Picking up the pipe, Kevin pointed to white squiggles stamped on the black plastic. “These mark every two feet so we know how far it’s gone.”
   

I trusted his answer because I couldn’t distinguish the tiny marks without a magnifying glass. Before my next trip out to check on the drillers, I changed into my dish washing outfit—a royal blue sweater Mom had knitted and a plastic sunflower seed bag apron worn over the green yoga pants.

The drillers climbed onto the water truck. Dan swung fifty-pound bags of powdered grout to Kevin. He ripped the sides on the edge of a mental funnel then dumped the contents into the mixer.

Back at the second well, they watched the white specks on a feeder pipe and shoved it to the bottom. Kevin pushed a button on the control panel. The truck rumbled and pumped moist, silver grout into the well.

Dan held the feeder pipe. When the pipe stuck in the grout, he tugged it free to fill the next part of the well. They stopped pumping five feet from the top, where the pipes would bend into a trench and enter the basement. Dan pulled the feeder free.

Done with dishes, I changed for my daily health walk with Spence. I slipped into a floor length, empire waist, puffy-sleeved, blue gown—a regency dress to celebrate Jane Austen’s 246th birthday. For warmth, I added the jacket I’d appliqued with blossoms and Emerson’s quote, “The earth laughs in flowers.” As on the two previous trips, I slugged across the torn-up yard in mud boots and wondered if the drillers would comment on my crazy outfits.

They didn’t. No blinks. No smirks. All business.

“What’s next?” I asked.

“We have to thread the pipe through the casing.” Kevin scrunched his forehead.

Dan straightened the seventy-five extra feet of double plastic tubing along the ground.

Kevin pushed a lever pulling the twenty-foot steel casing out of the well. He left a three foot section between the bottom of the casing and top of the well. “Some jobs are easy. We cut the pipes here.” He bent and pantomimed cutting the hard rubber tubing at the end of the casing. “But Jerry wants all the extra pipe in one piece.”

While Kevin tugged the pipes below the casing, Dan pulled the pipe across the lawn until the pipe wouldn’t budge. Then Dan climbed the derrick—not difficult where X pieces filled the metal squares on the side. Near the top of the steel casing, however, only diagonals filled the squares. A broken hydraulic hose had sprayed, making the metal slippery under his muddy boots. He wrapped his legs around a square and diagonal but couldn’t get a secure footing for tugging the pipe. He climbed down, stood beside the truck, and shoved the pipe up for Kevin to pull down. 

Threading and Pulling the Pipes through the Casing

Leaving them at the Herculean task, Spence and I scuffed through the woods for exercise.

That afternoon, Kevin knocked on the front door. “Do any lines run underground near the third well?”

“Yes.” With Kevin and Spence following, I traipsed down the ramp to the front yard. “A pipe connects the gutter,” I touched the down spout, “to a cistern.” I pointed to the patch of dried girasole stems by the road. “Another pipe goes from the cistern down the hill to the hydrant.”

“She’s right.” Spence put his hands on my shoulders. “Your drill is close. You might hit the pipe.”

Kevin gritted his teeth. “I need to move the well. Where the flag’s placed, lifting the derrick would hit the fiber optic cable.” He pointed to the overhead wires.

The front truck wheels just missed the yew bush at the edge of the parking pad. That solved the problem for me because their boss had paced the front yard and muttered about the third well placement. “Todd said you’d have to run over that bush.”

Kevin’s face changed from stormy to sunny. Grabbing the shovel that Dan had used to clear mud and rock from around the drill, Kevin dug up the bush.

I filled a bucket of rain water from the cistern hydrant and stuffed the yew roots in.

Spence removed Timber LOK screws from landscape lumber and moved two pieces aside so the truck didn’t have to back over the wood.

Kevin moved the truck to the original, white painted X position.

All three of us stood and watched Dan hammer in the stakes for the fabric barrier.

Poking me with his elbow, Spence spoke to Kevin. “You didn’t ask about Janet’s fancy dress.”

Kevin turned his head to conceal his cheeks puffing into a wide grin. He didn’t ask.

By the end of the day, they’d drilled the third well and forced the tubing down. Only filling that well with grout and threading the ends of the tubing through the steel casing remained. They easily accomplished those tasks Friday morning without me interrupting with questions or photos—I’d already observed those operations. 

When they rolled the grout filling tube into a four foot wheel, however, I went out to say goodbye. “Thanks for letting me ask questions and take photos. I appreciate all you did. Watching you was better than watching an award-winning documentary.”

Kevin’s cheeks reddened.

“Do you have another job this afternoon?”

He paused in securing the wheel of tubing to the truck. “What’s the date today?”

“The seventeenth,” I blurted. “Yesterday was Jane Austen’s two hundred forth-sixth birthday. I wore the regency dress to celebrate her.”

Grinning, Kevin shook his head. “Our next job is Monday. We’ll prep the truck today.”

A blue Kennihan truck had arrived a half hour earlier. Reluctant to leave Kevin and Dan, but telling myself they had work to do, I marched to the other side of the house across the white trench lines painted on the grass. An older man operated the backhoe. Two younger workers stood at the edge of the trench—one with a shovel, the other poised to fetch tools.

Intending to ask permission to take photos before Spence could warn them about me, I approached the young men. 

The scraping, crunching, and beeping of the backhoe masked the rumble of the two drilling trucks driving down West Creek Road. Sorrow and gratitude jostled inside me—the friendly professional drillers wouldn’t be back, but, in two and a half days, they’d completed three geothermal wells, ignored the camera flashing, and answered a myriad of questions. They’d also treated me with respect—not like a crazy old busybody.

 

Water Escaping Third Well