Roger Pires April 16, 2009
When he's not offering his take on daily life, Roger Pires spends his days as a computer systems analyst. It's not exactly a glamorous calling but hey, it pays the bills. He enjoys hockey, canoeing, snowshoeing, and spending as much time as he possibly can outdoors. He lives in Udora with his wife and two kids, who are his prime inspiration for Ravenshoe Ramblings.
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Easter honey
There's no sound quite like it. The gurgle in the kitchen sink after a toilet is flushed. It is the siren song of a full septic tank and it means trouble.
Big trouble.
In what is becoming an immutable rite of spring, we called to have our septic tank pumped. We were informed by the kind yet besieged lady on the other end of the line that it was Easter weekend and it'd be a couple of hours at least before they could get to us. Apparently, several septic tanks in our area had pulled off a conspiracy and had decided to top up at the same time. I'm sure the prodigious melt water from a long winter and the recent downpours had also contributed to the problem.
My backyard looked like one of those aerial photographs of the Mackenzie Delta. Tufts of yellow grass floated amongst lazy fingers of water that flowed in all directions. Somewhere under that water world lay my septic system. On this particular morning, it gained the front-page notoriety of a sunken galleon; only the treasure that it jealously guarded wasn't gold bullion.
There is never a good time for your septic system to suddenly come to a bubbling halt. The universal laws that govern critical household functions are unforgiving. The severity of the dilemma is directly proportional to the urgency of one's immediate demands. This is why a sump pump decides to pack it in during a monsoon, why the TV satellite delivers a blank screen during overtime of game seven, and why the septic tank achieves critical mass mere hours before Easter dinner. Fortunately, we weren't hosting the shindig; but the mission to get four people out the door shaved, showered, and stress-free was in serious peril.
At the front of the line for showers was our daughter. Although I have no empirical evidence to support this, I believe dirt and grime have a particular affinity for the teenaged body. And so, it was of supreme urgency that she go first. She would need at least twenty minutes but she promised to extend the courtesy of letting us know when she was finished. Like the tyrant that I am, I informed her grace she would have to postpone her royal dunking for an hour or so. By the look she gave me, you would think I had just launched her favourite iPod into the depths of Lake Simcoe. She reminded me of the logistical complexities of being a teenager and she was going in, regardless. Fine, I said. But she better take a squeegee in with her because sometime between lather and rinse she would be up to her ankles in septic juice. This image was too much even for the urgencies of adolescence, and she retreated to her room in full grumble.
Everyone knows that teenaged girls and their little brothers are from different solar systems, which would explain our son's reaction to our household dilemma. When my wife informed him that he had to postpone his shower, he looked like he had just witnessed the second coming of his Xbox. Having narrowly escaped the twin devils of soap and water, he did a happy dance out the front door to where his bike awaited. Which left my wife and I alone to ponder our immediate fate.
When the septic guy failed to show up after an hour, we started having doubts about our ability to be on time for dinner. There is a school of thought that says family gatherings are to be endured, not enjoyed. I am not a member of this esteemed fraternity. I believe they are a precious thread in the fabric of every family, no matter how infuriating they are at the time. As such, I felt we should show enough respect not to arrive at my brother-in-law's sprawling estate looking like we had combed our hair with a pork chop and smelling like last night's campfire. My lovely wife agreed - but wouldn't it be fun? We should flip a coin, I suggested: heads we shower, tails we show up for Easter dinner looking like the Clampetts on a Sunday drive.
We wouldn't need to flip that coin. At that moment, the honey truck lumbered up the driveway to lead us to the Promised Land. The driver unfolded himself from the behemoth to begin his grisly work. We gathered at the kitchen window to watch him perform his errand of mercy. The fellow looked up at our enthralled faces a couple of times, probably wondering when his chosen line of work had turned into a carnival ride.
He finished with minutes to spare before we had to leave. In a wild symphony of shavers, hair dryers, and high-pressure showerheads, we were able to pull off a miracle of hygiene.
