Reflections on the Thirteenth Week of Winter – Water Follies

    Friday, January 27, twenty minutes into the second load of laundry, the computer driven, front loading Maytag beep, beep, beeped and flashed “LF” at me.

    Lost flannels? Lingerie fluctuations?

    I tugged on the washer door. Locked tight. I pushed random buttons. “LF” kept flashing. Sighing, I climbed to the loft to unearth the manual.

    The manual’s explanation that “LF” stood for “Long Fill” made as much sense as my guesses, but the directions to correct the problem helped. Disconnect the machine, restart the load, and call a repairman if the “LF” warning appears again.

    On tiptoes, I stretched over the washtub, reached behind the machine, and pull out the bulky plug. That stopped the “LF” flash. Because I couldn’t see to replace the plug in the shadows behind the machine, I got my flashlight. With the flashlight in my right hand, I stretched my left arm, balanced on three left foot toes, and replaced the plug. Back in an upright posture, I pushed buttons to restart the cycle.

    No beeps. No flashes. The washer jetted through its sixty-nine minute routine.

    Sticking my chest out Helen Reddy “I am woman, hear me roar” invincible, I stuffed the clothes in the dryer.

Invincible vanished the following Friday when the washer beeped and flashed “LF” twenty minutes into the second load. I tiptoed, stretched, and pulled the plug. Water dripped off the supply line hose and onto my hand.

    I ran for my cell phone and called Spence, who had shopped for groceries in Meadville and was driving towards Sheakleyville to buy diesel fuel for his tractor.

    “I can tell from your voice this is an emergency,” he said. “I’m coming home.”

    Whoops. I could have waited till he’d finished his errands.

    “It’s just a little drip. Put a towel under it and restart the load,” he said. “I’ll look at it later this week, or you can call a repairman.”

    I put a hand towel behind the machine, restarted the second load, and called C & A Appliance Repair eleven miles north of us.

    Carl arrived Monday with a satchel full of tools.

    Fat cat George sniffed the bag, gave Carl a green-eyed inspection from brown hair to inside-the-house boots, and sauntered off for a nap.

    Carl was the first repairman I’d ever had that changed out of his outdoor boots.

    After listening to my saga he said, “That could be the supply lines, which get clogged, or your water system flow.” He pulled off the machine’s bottom compartment cover and ran diagnostics. Then he changed boots to fetch two valves and two hoses from his truck. After working more than an hour, he wrote the bill.

    Only $119.68? When he gave me a pen and a refrigerator magnet with his logo and phone number, I said, “Thanks. I’ll definitely be calling you again.” Only I didn’t think it would be in a week.

    The next Friday, February 10, the washer beeped twenty minutes into the second load. I tiptoed, stretched, pulled the plug, reinserted the plug, restarted the machine, and called Carl.

    “It’s not the washer,” he said over the phone. “The supply lines had been clogged, but the new ones aren’t. It’s the water system flow. Try cleaning your water filters and wait an hour before starting the second load so the tank has time to refill. If that doesn’t work, call a plumber to check your water system.”

    Did a water problem mean a break in the underground pipes or an animal clogging the works?

    I pushed water monsters to the back of my mind, did laundry with an hour delay between loads, and waited for a warm day to clean the filters at the cistern hydrant outside.

In the meantime, when I fed the worms in the shower stall of the basement bathroom, water ran in the toilet. Maybe that caused the house water tank to stay low. I called Spence down from his computer key tapping work.

    He wedged a shim under the float arm, and the murmur of flowing water stopped. Setting the tank cover on the toilet seat, he said, “Don’t use this toilet till I have time to replace the fluid master.”

    A few days later, he bought a fluid master for “about $8.00” at the Sandy Lake hardware and installed it. The toilet flushed properly, but the water in the first floor washtub flowed for a second then diminished in volume.

    I continued spacing an hour between laundry loads and resumed my wait for a warm day.

    Because I used sunny, 71ºF (22ºC) February 24 to clean my stinking of dead fish car, I had to wait till March 1. On that 57ºF (14ºC) Wednesday, Spence turned off the water lines, disconnected the three filtering canisters, then helped me lug the canisters, two buckets, a new sediment filter, two replacement ceramic candles, and cleaning supplies outside. With a gentle rain wetting my head, I peered into the sediment filter canister. Normal dirt soiled the filter, and no minnows or baby water snakes swam around it. I scrubbed the plastic walls and inserted a new filter before tackling the ceramic candles. None had broken since last summer. With a green scouring pad, I rubbed the dark, egg brown candles till they turned an off white coffee creamer color. Brown ceramic goo splotched my coat, and cold, snow melt water bit my fingers.

    Spence helped lug everything back inside, reset the O-rings, and screwed the canisters back in place. Except, when he reset the O-ring on the last canister, it slipped out of his hands and off the water tank top. Crash. The canister hit the floor, and all six candles broke.

After picking up the shards, I inserted our only two replacements.

Spence smeared plumbers grease in the groove, set the stretched O-ring, and screwed the canister in place. He flipped the levers to turn the water back on, and water sprayed from the canister. He turned the water off, unscrewed the canister, reset the O-ring, and replaced the canister.

    Water on. Spray. Water off. O-ring reset. Water on. Spray. Water off.

    While Spence patiently repeated the process, I lost count of the number of times he tried. “Let’s put a bucket and a bath towel under the canister,” I said when the spray diminished to a trickle. “After we install the four new candles, the leak might stop.”

    March 4, UPS delivered the $225.36 Doulton order containing two sets of ceramic candles (in case more broke) and a sediment cartridge for the next cleaning. March 5 we inserted four candles. Water dripped from the edge of the canister.

    “It might stop in awhile,” Spence said.

    But it didn’t.

    I lay another bath towel under the bucket. Spence shut the water off overnight, and we took turns emptying the bucket during the day.

    On Sunday, March 12, Spence asked “Do you want to try resetting the O-rings again?”

    “It’s worth a try,” I said.

    Spence found some rough surface on the outer edge of the canister and a missing chip on the inner edge. He scraped to smooth out the rough spots and reset the O-ring.

    Drips continued.

    Monday, the leaks accelerated to a gallon per hour. Tuesday, the rate doubled.

    I called Jones Plumbing and Heating in Meadville, sixteen miles away, and related my saga.

    “The damaged canister will never seal properly,” the plumber, who didn’t give his name, said. “Buy a new canister then call me back. I’ll install it for you.”

    I ordered a Pentek ten inch Big Blue filterhousing, O-rings, and paid extra for next day delivery. The bill totaled $67.66. UPS brought the supplies late Wednesday afternoon.

    Toting the box downstairs, I said, “Do you think we can use the old mounted top and just replace the bottom part of the canister?”

    “That’s my plan,” Spence said. He shut off the water and took down the leaking canister.

    I transferred the candles to the new canister.

    He screwed the filter housing in place and turned on the water.

    A circular waterfall cascaded from the canister.

    Spence quickly shut the water off.

    After three more tries with a repeating Niagara Falls effect, Spence put the candles back in the old canister, screwed it in place, and placed the bucket underneath to catch the trickle.

    Thursday morning, I called the plumber and dashed off to volunteer at the Learning Center and swim laps at the YMCA. I came home to Spence tapping keys on his computer. Setting down my gear, I said, “Did the plumber come? What happened?”

   “Two plumbers came. I took them down to the basement, showed them the materials, and let them get to work. Five minutes later, they came up and said the job was done.”

    “What?”

    “They’d put the new canister on the old top and tightened it so it didn’t leak. The bill was $160.00.”

    “No parts? Just five minutes of labor?”

    “Yep, plus their travel time.”

    Sheesh.

    So, this past Friday after seven weeks and $580.70 (₤468.34), I started the second load of laundry as soon as I put the first load into the dryer. The second load ran through a complete cycle. No beeps. No “LF” flashes. Instead of sticking my chest out Helen Reddy “I am woman, hear me roar” invincible, I sighed in relief.

 

Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Winter – George and the Strawberry Pie

 

    Wednesday afternoon, while wind howled down West Creek Road and tops of towering maples bent back and forth like frenzied ballerinas, I turned on the tap and waited for the water to get ouch-hot so I could soak a bag of frozen Wells Wood strawberries. Fat cat George circled my feet looking for a dropped morsel.

    I reached down and patted his head. “You don’t like strawberries, George.”

    He gave me a wide, green eye, questioning glare.

    “Besides,” I said, “this pie is for Jennifer not you.”

    He yawned so I didn’t explain that I would be staying with Jennifer Friday night before the Jane Austen meeting about circulating libraries Saturday in downtown Cleveland. I’d emailed Jennifer to ask if me staying would be convenient, and she’d emailed back, “What would be cooler! I would love to have you stay.”

    George settled on the mat by the kitchen sink.

    I stepped over him repeatedly to collect ingredients, find utensils, and roll the crust. When the pie shell came out of the oven, the cookie sheet under the pie pan slipped from the potholder and banged against the oven rack. A two inch section of the fluted edge broke off the baked pie crust.

    “Good grief,” I muttered trying to reset the flaky pieces back though I knew they wouldn’t stick. Had I ruined Jennifer’s pie?

    Spence walked into the kitchen. “You could use superglue.”

    “I don’t want to poison anyone.”

    “It’s not toxic when it dries.”

    Instead of responding that I didn’t want to feed anyone plastic either, I told myself Jennifer wouldn’t care about the gap in the crust and offered the broken pieces to George.

    His nose quivered, his tail dropped, and he waddled away.

    I fitted strawberries on the pie shell, and defrosted juice dribbled out of them. Would the juice make the shell soggy? I spooned the cooked strawberry filling on top, covered the pie with wax paper, and covered the wax paper with aluminum foil. Figuring nothing else could go wrong, I tucked the pie in the back of the refrigerator to keep it safe.

   Thursday, Jennifer emailed, “My power is out and not predicted to be back until it’s too late for us so we are moving to Beth's house. I will send you her address and directions soon.”

    Yikes. A result of Wednesday’s windstorm no doubt. I counted people–Jennifer, her husband, their daughter Beth, Beth’s husband, two children, the speaker for the meeting, and me. Ten. I reached in the freezer for a bag of Wells Wood pumpkin puree and checked on George. He’d sprawled on the guest room bed which meant I might be able to make the two dozen pumpkin muffins without him interrupting.

When the aroma of pumpkin reached him, he plodded to the kitchen to check the floor. Nothing. He returned to the guest room to continue his nap.

    Friday afternoon, I packed. I had two containers for transporting pie–an old acer computer box and a fourteen inch diameter shallow basket with a two foot high handle. The two dozen muffins would travel better in the box so I lay an old blue towel in the bottom of the basket, set the twice covered pie on the towel, and folded the ends over the top. I put the basket on the floor next to my pile of travel gear and monitored George.

    He walked up to the basket, sniffed, then continued to his food bowl. After munching, he sniffed the blue towel again then settled down for a nap in front of the wood stove.

    The pie was safe.

    I sat down and organized my itinerary.

    Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.

   I glanced up and gasped.

    George, preparing to nap, kneaded his front paws on the blue towel which crinkled the aluminum foil and wax paper beneath.

    “GEORGE!” I jumped out of the chair, grabbed him, and hugged him to my chest. Why hadn’t I packed the pie in the box?

    He went limp.

    Spence stopped tapping computer keys. “What’s the  matter?”

    “George stepped on the pie.”

    “Oh, I thought something bad happened like he’d swallowed a spider.”

    Didn’t Spence understand? “George is smooshing the pie I’m taking to Jennifer.”

    Spence pointed to the basket. “It’s a towel. Of course he’d step on a towel.”

    I pursed my lips and scowled. Would the pie have gouges or paw prints?

    I didn’t find out till after I’d driven through whiteouts on Pennsylvania back roads, hugged Jennifer in the cold outside her daughter’s house, talked with third grade Colin about his three seed science experiment, helped prepare salad, and discussed, with with four other Janeites during dinner, the possibility that Jane Austen had suffered from arsenic poisoning.

    I unwrapped the towel, pulled off the foil, and peeled away the wax paper.

    No paw prints. No gouges. Just a smooth strawberry-pink surface.

    I cut a slice. Defrosted juice hadn’t made the crust soggy. Maybe the pie had survived.

    Around a mouthful, Jennifer said, “It’s good pie.”

    I exhaled in relief. After hours of useless worrying, I relaxed and enjoyed the rest of my visit–stretching for yoga on the bedroom carpet in early morning light with Jennifer, playing in the kitchen with Newton, a four week old Morkie puppy, listening in Dunham Tavern’s restored red barn to three Jane Austen inspired presentations, and all.

    When I returned home, I set the basket, holding the empty pie pan wrapped in the blue towel, on the floor where I’d stacked my travel gear Friday.

    Tail wagging in a wide arc, George walked up to me for a pet then sniffed the basket. Within fifteen minutes, he’d climbed into the basket and settled on the blue towel.

    “He looks like he’s sitting on a nest,” Spence said.

   “He didn’t ruin my pie,” I said. “He’s fine.” I reached down and patted his head.

Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Winter – Hunting Coltsfoot

    Monday, when I walked down Chestnut Street in Meadville with a swim bag over my left shoulder and a packed-for-all-emergencies purse on my right, a flash of yellow stopped me. Crocuses bloomed in front of the Unitarian Church. Pausing to soak in the tiny flowers’ beauty, I wondered why I hadn’t seen any coltsfoot along the roadsides. Also yellow, coltsfoot often bloom before crocuses.

    Though coltsfoot resemble dandelions from a distance, they are daisy-shape up close. They dot country berms with yellow and signal the waning of winter. I’d never searched for coltsfoot. Like dandelions, coltsfoot just appear in abundance. Puzzled that I hadn’t seen any yet this year, I lugged my bags to the YMCA and vowed to hunt for coltsfoot on the way home.

    None flashed by on the highway so I slowed the car to a safe, berm-scoping crawl on West Creek Road. No yellow flowers.

    Had the wet winter disturbed their rhizomes?

    With only six sunny days in February, was the weather too cloudy for the flowers to open?

    Tuesday afternoon, during a moment of sunshine, I searched by foot. Between the log house and garage, I inspected leaf litter and gravel on the bank above the drainage ditch. The debris camouflaged eight coltsfoot flowers–smaller than the normal one inch diameter but still vibrant yellow. Coltsfoot had survived the wet and clouds.

    Then snow fell Wednesday night.

    When I lugged my school bag, swim bag, lunch bag, and purse to the car for a day in Meadville Thursday, snow covered every coltsfoot. I didn’t worry. Late winter flowers can handle a little snow.

    I celebrated Dr. Seuss’ birthday with children at the Learning Center. While the younger ones wrote sentences about cats in hats and the older ones guessed which books rhyming passages came from, snow melted and left the crocuses by the church flattened as if they’d been knocked down by a flood.

    Uh oh.

    Back at Wells Wood, I paced between the house and garage staring at gravel and dead leaves. No yellow flowers. On the fourth pass, a speck of yellow the size of a pencil’s diameter caught my eye. Green sepals encased all but the tip of a coltsfoot. Five inches to the left another closed flower sported an even smaller tip of yellow. Only two of the original eight survived the snow.

    Stretching my leg across the two foot wide drainage ditch, I settled my boot in an inch of trickling water and gravel. Bags banged against my sides and back while I bent over and rummaged through the leaves for broken branches. Glad no one was around to wonder why I was in such a ludicrous posture, I arranged the branches in a triangle around the two closed coltsfoot. The triangle would save me time locating the plants again.

    Or not.

    Friday morning snow covered the triangle and the coltsfoot. Saturday, temperatures in the mid twenties (-4º C) and cloudy skies kept the coltsfoot closed. And today, after the temperatures dipped to 10º F (-12º C) overnight causing the logs in the house to contract at different rates and pop, crack, bang me awake, I didn’t even check for flowers.

    But next week, with bags hanging off my shoulders, I’ll walk to the garage and hunt for coltsfoot, a sign of a waning winter.